


Lost and Found

by curiousair



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Angst, Cuddling, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Guns, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Minor Injuries, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Road Trips, Strangers to Lovers, chaotic energy, infidelity (minor)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:08:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 88,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25561087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiousair/pseuds/curiousair
Summary: Richie works as a 'professional cuddler.' Eddie hires him.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 109
Kudos: 232





	1. impossible to ignore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title credit- dreams, by the cranberries

Richie falls in love at least once a day. There’s no shortage of handsome, available men in the valley—men at the grocery store, groping fruit with nimble fingers. Men at the gym, wearing pornographically short shorts. Men with light, musky scents and soft middles, who hire Richie to hold them.

Men who fix cars. Doe-eyed, with a swipe of motor oil on his cheek. Dimples, strong brow, dark, tapered hair styled like an afterthought. A hesitant smile, just a slight pull at the corners of his lips.

Richie has a date this weekend, and he curses himself that it isn’t with this particular man. He should have dropped his car off days ago, before he agreed to go to dinner with _Dave_ , who is by all means a decent guy. The pull Richie felt to Dave is waning, now that he stands in front of this quiet mechanic with a loud, demanding energy that captivates every ounce of his attention. 

They barely even speak to each other, just a few words when Richie drops his car off and a polite greeting when he comes back to pick it up. But, he holds Richie’s gaze for just long enough, tracking each miniscule movement of Richie’s eyes with his deep brown irises. Richie used to curse himself for being this easy to entrance, but now he can’t bear to redirect his attention. He might miss something, more small details to add to the way the man combs a hand through his hair and looks at Richie curiously, like a work of art he can’t quite figure out. There’s no name stitched on the man’s stained work shirt, nothing for Richie to chant to himself like a prayer as he wraps a hand around himself and thinks about thick biceps, tanned, freckled forearms and broad shoulders that lead into a slight waist and narrow hips. 

“Do you drive a lot for work?” the man asks, holding out Richie’s car key.

Their fingertips brush when Richie takes the key, the man’s calloused fingers catching on Richie’s clammy ones. Richie blinks wordlessly for a minute, startled out his daydream by the question and the unmistakable buzz running up his arm from the brief touch. He opens his mouth, and has to avert his eyes from the man’s intense gaze to remember what the man just asked. “I- well, it depends.”

“Oh.” The man chews his lip and his cheeks flush, something sheepish about his expression. “I was looking at your mileage is why. And, I just wondered, is all.” 

It’s hot in the shop’s garage, no escape from the midday June sun, even in the shade. Richie brings a hand to the back of his neck, where sweat beads at his hairline. “Just around the valley and LA.” 

The man takes a rag out of his back pocket, uses it to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “What do you do?”

The reaction to Richie’s job is varied. Skepticism is a popular reaction, with an added eyeroll and unspoken insult about hipster LA folk and their fake jobs. Though he does get a sense of satisfaction when they balk in surprise as he tells them, with a nonchalant wave of his hand, that he charges at least 80 dollars an hour and during a good week, he sees upwards to ten different clients. Inevitably, people ask if he sleeps with his clients for extra cash. In another life, maybe Richie would break the rules for a chance to afford something other than a 2007 Kia Spectra and a room in a shared house in Chatsworth. But as it is, Richie is nearing 35 and isn’t too keen on leaning into criminal activity. There’s also the whole ‘desperate to experience real, all-encompassing love’ ordeal that keeps him from engaging in casual sex, becoming a sugar baby or gigolo, or entering a ‘ _mutually beneficial situationship_.’

“I’m a...professional cuddler. Yes, it’s exactly what it sounds like.”

“A professional cuddler.” A slow grin spreads across the man’s face, his eyes widening. “Wow.” 

“Yeah.” Richie waits for additional commentary, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The man stays silent, wringing his hands. “Anyway, thanks for all your help.”

The man blinks, clearing his throat. “Right, yeah, it’s no problem. If anything feels off, just come back and it’s on me.” He offers another sheepish smile, and it wraps around Richie, nearly pulls him in. Richie has to fight to stay put, not knowing what he'd do if he dared to step into the man's space. 

“Thanks.” Richie takes a step back, and another, willing himself to leave the shop before he starts to wax poetic about this stranger’s eyes or reach out for another chance to touch. “Have a good one.”

The entire drive home, Richie scolds himself for not asking for the man's name. It weighs heavy on him, heavier than it should, the sickening twist of regret in his gut. He steps into his house, thankful that it’s empty, and retreats to his bedroom.

He opens the window and gets undressed, hoping the fresh air will cool down his stuffy, un-air conditioned room. It’s early, too early to go to bed but too late in the day for a nap. Still, he gets as comfortable as he can on his decade old mattress with its sorry excuse for a memory foam topper, finds his favorite fountain pen, and opens his journal on his lap. The doe-eyed mechanic comes to mind, and warmth prickles at his cheeks.

_June 5th-My life is a revolving door of uninteresting events, failed conquests and missed chances._

* * *

Dave is handsome in an aging fraternity member way. Sun-damaged skin and teeth too straight and white. He smells like department store cologne, leaving a bitter taste in Richie's mouth every time he waves his arms to punctuate an exciting part of his endless story about IPAs.

They’re at a lunch restaurant, seated in the enclosed patio area. The umbrella in the center of the table is tilted, keeping Richie halfway in the sun. He has moved his chair twice, chasing the shade, but it’s futile. Squinting, he pushes his glasses up from where they keep slipping on his sweaty nose, and thinks about how sexy he must look right now.

Dave, finally losing air, sits back and takes a drink of his beer. Richie forgets what kind of IPA it is, they all look and taste the same to him. "So, dating...what are you looking for? Something serious, something more casual?" 

About a year ago, Richie learned the hard way that beating around the bush or telling white lies to force a relationship to work only wastes time and makes things worse in the end. So, he’s honest, even if it means shooting himself in the foot or putting said foot in his mouth. “If I say I want a boyfriend and eventually a husband, are you going to run screaming?” 

Dave chuckles, his light eyes shining. “Not necessarily. But, you should know I just got out of a relationship.” 

“Oh.” Richie takes a sip from his rapidly melting drink. “What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?” 

The way people talk about their exes says a lot about them. Every time he asks, he plays a little guessing game with himself. He's heard every excuse in the book—long distance, cheating, commitment issues, clingy friends, bad breath. He looks at Dave's tacky designer shirt and puts his money on him having a ‘ _crazy ex_.’ A lot of guys in LA have 'crazy exes,’ and it’s usually just code for ‘I can’t talk about feelings’ or ‘I’m bad at conflict resolution.’ 

"Oh, he was just...weird. Things got messy.” Dave shrugs, looking somewhere behind Richie’s head. “We dated for a while and I thought it was fun and cute at first, but he was just crazy." 

Bingo. Richie should get paid for this. 

"What about you? Why did your last relationship end?" 

In a nutshell, Richie has shitty luck with romance, having never been in a real, honest to god relationship for more than a few weeks. He’s been ghosted more times than he can count, has given up on dating apps, and doesn’t trust a man who won’t kiss him in public. The last guy he dated dumped him in a text message, never giving a valid reason why they shouldn’t see each other anymore. Richie just had to suck it up and realize that simply not wanting to hang out is a valid enough reason. "Oh, we just grew apart." 

Their conversation teeters off into meaningless talk about the food and the weather, and by the end of the date, the little chemistry between them has dissipated. They split the bill without having to discuss it, and get up from the table, giving each other knowing looks as they shake hands, then they part ways. 

It’s fine, Richie tells himself, staring at his reflection in the rearview mirror. Better to waste an afternoon than entire weeks or months of his life.

In the dark, quiet loneliness of his bedroom, spread out on the bed, Richie wonders if something along the line has gone astray. A mistake he made, a bad decision that set off the unfortunate chain of events that is his life. Sure, things have been worse and things can always get better, but he must have done something wrong to deserve to be this broke, aimless, and lonely.

From his pocket, his phone vibrates and pings and he groans, fully expecting it to be Dave. Having no chemistry and nothing to talk about doesn’t stop these guys from reaching out to him in hopes of a one off hook-up. 

Thankfully, it’s only a new message request from a potential client. Richie swipes down on the notification and opens the app, scrolling past his awkward profile picture to look at his messages. 

There’s one unread message from Rae, a woman he met at the gym. She took the treadmill next to his and struck up a conversation, ending with her showing Richie pictures of her year-old baby. 

**Rae** : _hey I wanted to say thank you again for yesterday. I hadn't slept that well in ages. you are magic! (are you sure you aren't a wizard?) I'd like to meet again. same time next week?_

Richie smiles as he types a response, feeling a swell of pride. 

During his freshman year of college, he had a boyfriend who told him that being in his arms felt like a dream. As awful and short lived as the relationship was, Richie holds that compliment close to him. Some years later, he had another brief fling with a guy who joked that people would pay to cuddle him. Then, after almost a decade filled with mind-numbing clerical work, a grueling stint as a personal assistant, and an embarrassing amount of food service experience, he found a card stuck under his windshield wipers. Professional Cuddling Services, it read. Divine intervention in action.

No, _professional cuddling_ isn’t what he had in mind when he wrote his ‘Where do you see yourself in 20 years?’ essay in 9th grade Honors English, but it’s meaningful to people. The money is good—he’s slowly working his way through the asinine amount of debt he racked up from just a year and a half of college. But what stays with him at night, when he’s alone with his thoughts, is that he's able to provide something for people in need. For a few hours a day, he’s useful to someone.

Richie scrolls down to the new message, sent only a minute ago. Richie clicks the profile. Eddie Kaspbrak- Male, 30 years old, 5 miles away. The rest of his profile is empty, which is common. Most people don't like to air all their dirty laundry before meeting, others don't like to air it at all. Eddie's picture is blurry and small, clearly taken from an old, scanned photo. This is also common, since selfies are just an uncomfortable necessity for the app. Most of his clients apologize profusely for looking different (meaning older or less airbrushed) than their profile picture. Richie clicks back to the message request and hits accept.

 **Eddie** : _Hello. I'm looking to book a session, but I'm new to this. I was scrolling through the app when I saw your face and thought you seemed nice. Any way you can maybe explain how this works?_

Richie puts on his professional hat and types his usual reply for first timers.

**Richie** _: Hi, Eddie. Thanks for the compliment. I'd like to think I'm nice, so it's great when other people think I look the part. Usually I start by asking what exactly you're looking for. You can be as vague as you want. Then, if you think I can provide that, we can get more specific with the when, where, and how._

The response takes a few minutes, so Richie kicks his shoes off and opens his curtains, letting in the dim rays of the late afternoon sun. He changes out of his sweaty button-down, turns on some music for the sake of background noise, and lights a joint.

 **Eddie** : _Well, my fiance suggested I do this. I guess he and I are having 'intimacy issues.' I'm not really sure where to start. Honestly, I'm just looking to be held in any way._

Working with people dealing with intimacy issues is a sad part of Richie’s job. Some people are just getting used to the idea of being touched, likely to flinch away or tense up if Richie moves too fast. Others are touch-starved, so used to strained relationships or loneliness that they cry the second Richie gets his hands on them. Eddie’s situation is always a particularly sad case. Richie can't imagine marrying someone who doesn't know how to hold him.

 **Richie** : _I'm sorry to hear that. It is completely up to you what type of session you want. Cuddling, hand-holding, it's all sort of under the same umbrella._

 **Eddie:** _Would I have to go to your house?_

 **Richie:** _We can go anywhere in the areas listed on my profile. It doesn't have to be in a private place. If you'd like, we could meet at a museum or at a cafe first._

There’s a break between messages, presumably because Eddie is belatedly checking the details on Richie’s page. Richie waits, sitting by the window to blow smoke out into the backyard.

 **Eddie:** _Right. I didn't read that far down. What about a public park?_

 **Richie:** _That's a popular choice._

 **Eddie:** _Great. I'll fill out the booking form._

 **Richie:** _Any other questions? Concerns?_

The response is lightning fast, coming in not even a second after Richie hits send.

 **Eddie:** _Nope. Thank you so much._

Within minutes, Richie gets a notification for a new booking. 

_Eddie Kaspbrak. Saturday, June 15th, 9 AM-10 AM._ It’s paid in full, 100 dollars (minus fees) straight to Richie’s bank account. The notes include the address of the park and a smiley face emoji.

Other cuddlers like to meet in person before they agree to full sessions, which Richie supposes is safer. His mother is convinced he’s going to wake up in a bathtub with his kidneys gone, but he thinks he can read people well enough. Also, he carries pepper spray, which he has never used, if anything gets out of hand. He also reminds her that LA is expensive; even if he _had_ managed to graduate college and write a best selling memoir, he’d still be broke. Not only is his current job his highest paying, it’s his favorite. 

**Richie** : _Confirmed your booking :)_ _See you next Saturday! Have a good night._

* * *

The air is crisp when Richie gets to the park, the last of the morning fog breaking over the mountains in the distance. He’s ten minutes early, standing in the lot next to his car with a blanket tucked under his arm. He worries he’s being presumptuous, since sometimes people don’t even get to the lying down stage in their first meeting. To be fair, Eddie hadn’t provided many details about what he wanted. On the other hand, he’s brand new and this isn’t exactly a normal thing to pay for and even with a long FAQ, a lot of things remain dubious. Richie picks at his nails, well aware that he’s overthinking this. It’s been over a year, but it always takes him a little while to squash his nerves when meeting with a brand new client. 

An older car with a shiny black paint job pulls into the lot at an alarming speed, screeching to a halt a few spots away from Richie. The windows are down and there’s music blaring, something with twangy guitars and a female vocalist. The door opens, and out steps the man that has been making appearances in Richie’s dreams every night for the last eight nights in a row. 

He’s just as striking in a white t-shirt and black jeans as he was in the stained mechanic’s shirt. He walks over with a small wave, his smile less hesitant this time, spreading wide enough to make lines appear at the corners of his eyes. “Small world,” he says, with an amused tilt of his head.

Richie’s palms begin to sweat. “Must be.”

“Nice to meet you officially, Richie.” Eddie holds out his hand and Richie takes it. “Well, for the second time, really. I didn’t recognize you from your picture.”

All of Richie’s initial nerves seem to disappear, making room for the same buzz he felt when they touched briefly the first time, the same tingle he’s been longing for, this time stronger, crawling up his spine. He holds on to Eddie’s hand for a moment longer than necessary, watching his expression soften. 

Even when Richie was younger, he understood the power of touch. There’s an exchange of energy when you touch someone long enough, a give and take until you both reach a comfortable equilibrium. From Eddie, Richie receives a sharp, excited energy, a shock of heat down his chest before settling in his belly. Eddie grips Richie’s hand, with seemingly no intention of letting go, and when Richie squeezes back, Eddie’s smile falters and his shoulders relax. A whisper of a sigh escapes his parted lips and he presses the pulse point between Richie’s thumb and index finger, effectively giving Richie the head rush to end all head rushes. 

“You too,” Richie stutters, belatedly. “Do I look as nice in person as I do in my bad profile picture?” 

Eddie’s stare is soft and unwavering. “Nicer.”

Swooning, and about ready to melt and sink into the cracks in the pavement, Richie pulls his hand away. “Um, ready to start? We could sit and talk for a minute, ease into it if you want.“

“Or, we could get right to it,” Eddie says, motioning to the blanket. “I didn’t think of that.”

“Ah, that’s what makes me the professional.”

They walk deeper into the park, stopping between two trees. Richie shakes out the blanket on the dewy grass, then lowers himself onto the worn wool and lies down. Eddie follows, lying down on his side with one arm folded under his head. They settle in, look at each other, and there's a heart-stopping moment where Richie realizes that they’re on the precipice of something different. Something more intimate than the somewhat clinical nature of cuddling with a stranger. Richie stares, biting back the urge to confirm that his intuition is more than just wishful thinking. Eddie stares back openly, and Richie knows he feels it too. He takes the plunge first, reaching for Richie's hand. "Can I?" Richie nods, letting Eddie place a tentative hand on top of his. It's a welcome weight, anchoring him before he floats away with how light and airy Eddie makes him feel.

It’s quiet aside from the birds in the tree above them and a light breeze whistling through the leaves and branches. During his first meetings with people, Richie never wants to put pressure on the other person to make conversation. Some people need to ramble because they're uncomfortable with complete silence. Other times, people need brief words of comfort, a reminder that everything is okay. 

Eddie needs neither of these things. There's no pressure, no expectations behind the way he looks at Richie. He slides his hand up, fingers wrapping around Richie's wrist, a question flashing in his eyes. Richie nods—it's more than okay. Eddie continues, calloused fingers crawling up Richie's forearm. On the way back down, Richie flips his palm to catch Eddie's and Eddie tangles their fingers together, easy and willing.

He looks away first, lets his eyes flutter closed. Richie takes this opportunity to selfishly study the lines of his face, his sharp jawline, the barely there stubble, and long eyelashes. Then Eddie is shifting closer, close enough that all it would take was a simple duck of their heads to brush their lips together. He rolls onto his back, tugging Richie's hand across to lie still on his sternum, right over his racing heart. Idly, Richie wonders if they're thinking the same thing, if he's not the only one letting his mind wander a little too freely. They stay like this for a while, and Richie can hear their breathing sync, inhales and exhales elongating as Eddie's heart rate slows. Richie holds back a sigh, wanting to memorize the pattern of Eddie’s pulse under his hand.

To shake out his numb arm, Richie rolls onto his back, not surprised when Eddie immediately moves to close the space between them. He tucks himself into Richie's side, head on his chest, a heavy arm slung over his belly. It’s warm and trusting, the way he leans in when Richie wraps his arms around him, settling one hand around his back on his ribs and the other at his waist. When Richie closes his eyes, it heightens the rest of his senses. He breathes in a clean pine scent, revels in half of Eddie’s weight settling against his body, the rise and fall of Eddie’s ribs under his hand and the quiet _whoosh_ of each deep breath he takes. Richie could tuck his chin and bury his nose in Eddie’s hair, could slide a hand down to rest lower on his hip, could squeeze-

He shouldn't. He shouldn't even _think_ about it. He's a professional. This is a service, nothing more. This man is a stranger...a beautiful, warm, intoxicating stranger. With a fiance. 

Richie opens his eyes, strokes his hand down Eddie's arm, a light, _casual_ touch. 

"That feels so good," Eddie says groggily, rough and low in his throat. 

There it is, Richie thinks, the nail in his coffin.

The alarm on Richie’s phone sounds too soon, pulling them apart slowly until they’re connected only by their fingers twisted together. 

“That was…” Eddie trails off into nothing, his mouth forming around a gasp. He chuckles, something abrupt and startled. “Sorry, that was just…”

 _Amazing, perfect, beautiful_ , Richie finishes silently. The sun is in Eddie’s eyes now, streaming through the trees, illuminating the kaleidoscope of warm brown shades. 

“Thank you,” Richie says, and he's gone. So gone, he's dizzy with it. There's guilt somewhere under this realization, buried under all the fuzzy feelings. Guilt that he would even let himself get this far. Guilt for letting himself forget, even for a second, that this isn’t the time or place for him to develop a silly crush on an engaged stranger. 

Eddie furrows his brows, his lips twitching into a shy smile. "It didn't feel like an hour?" 

"I know. That's normal."

"With you, maybe," Eddie says, determined to make this harder for Richie.

They walk back to the lot, Richie's mind too flooded to say much. Eddie says thank you, and Richie mumbles something along the lines of 'no problem,' and gets into his car.

When he gets home, he kicks off his shoes and goes to the kitchen to reheat leftovers. As the microwave hums beside him, he checks his phone.

Sometime between leaving the park and Richie’s ten minute drive home, Eddie has booked two more sessions.

_Saturday, June 22nd 10 AM-12 PM_

_Saturday, June 29th 10 AM-12 PM_

It’s paid in full, a whopping 410 dollars. There's an address attached, with an additional note underneath.

_My apartment._

Weak in the knees, Richie opens his messages and starts typing before he can talk himself out of it.

 **Richie** : _Wow. I'll see you next week._

 **Eddie** : _:)_

Over lukewarm chicken and rice, Richie opens his journal.

_June 15th- Who is Eddie Kaspbrak and why doesn't he feel like an accident?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hold on to your butts, this story is gonna be a wild ride
> 
> follow me on twitter @ curiousair so we can scream about this together, I promise I'm friendly  
> (btw, I update weekly!)


	2. your arms are the refuge I was seeking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title credit- I wish I Felt This Way at Home, by Dolly Parton
> 
> special thanks to [my best friend](https://twitter.com/haystck_hanscom) who reads all this shit before it's published.

The door to Eddie’s apartment swings open mid-knock. He’s in black jeans and bleach stained black t-shirt, his hair fluffy and unstyled.

He tears his eyes away from Eddie’s neck, where the collar of his shirt is stretched enough to reveal a patch of skin Richie hasn’t seen before. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Eddie gives him a long, studious look. "You got a haircut." 

"Yeah, I did.” Instinctively, Richie reaches up to touch his hair. It’s only a little shorter, no longer falling into his eyes or curling annoyingly over his earlobes. “It's hot and it was getting too long." 

"It looks nice." 

_Nice_ , Richie echoes silently. He fumbles with the shoe box in his arms, suddenly remembering it’s there. "I brought books."

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “For?” 

“Uh. I know some people like to read during longer meetings. Or, like, sometimes I read to them, you know, just to fill the time.” Richie is well aware that he’s bordering on rambling, and it only confirms that this crush is moving ahead at a neck-breaking speed, whether he likes it or not. Eddie is smiling patiently, waiting for Richie to shut his mouth. Richie stops, shaken by the kind look in Eddie’s eyes. “But, we don’t have to, it’s just a suggestion.” 

Eddie opens the box and peers inside at the variety of books, 80's sci-fi, old, beat up historical fiction, dated editions of classics that Richie hasn’t opened in years.

“I wasn’t sure what you would like,” Richie explains, as Eddie picks up You Can Heal Your Life.

He chuckles, flipping through the yellowing pages. “A self help book?” 

“Yeah, I know it’s cheesy.” It’s the 1987 edition, a gift to Richie from his mother. He remembers walking into her bedroom for the first time and seeing the bookcase, stacked high with romance novels and self help books. Sitting in his room with a flashlight, hunched over books he had no business reading, was a formative time in his early adolescence. He accidentally came out to his mother, and his classmates soon after, at 12 when an innocent question— _"Why is it always a man and a woman falling in love in these books? Why not two men?”_ — turned into a full-blown sexual awakening. 

“Could be a laugh,” Eddie says, finally stepping aside to let Richie in. 

Richie toes off his shoes and glances around at the sparsely decorated space. The couch takes up most of the living room, with its big cushions and a thin blanket draped over the back. There’s a coffee table, looking worse for wear with burn marks and ring stains on the surface. On the TV stand, next to the TV, there’s a single framed photo. If Richie squints, he can recognize Eddie in the photo, standing next to another man, posing in front of what vaguely looks like the princess castle at Disneyland. 

He looks around the space with a different lens, at the shoes near the door, the framed art in the hall leading to the rest of the apartment, the magazines on the coffee table, and wonders how much of it is Eddie’s and how much of it is his fiance’s. His eyes catch the photo again, wishing he could think of an appropriate reason to pick it up for a closer look. Richie isn’t a jealous person—he’s made his peace with the fact that he’s not everyone’s first choice, and has shed the part of himself that gives in to irrational suspicions. But, maybe if he saw the man’s face he’d be able to discern, somehow, what he’s like. If they were to meet, would he be able to see right through Richie, looking past this strange arrangement to notice the dreamy look in Richie's eyes? Does he have a better job than Richie? More money? An established group of friends? A bigger-

“So, I got a new couch,” Eddie is saying, motioning to the overstuffed cushions. He sits down in the middle and looks at Richie, questioning. “I was thinking we could sit here?” 

Richie places the box of books on the coffee table and sits, relaxing into the corner of the couch. Eddie hands him the book and settles in close to his side, waiting.

As Richie starts reading through the introductory chapter filled with anecdotes about self belief, Eddie migrates to the other end of the couch and puts his legs up. Eventually, Richie does the same, placing his legs on either side of Eddie's. Sometime between 'what we give out, we get back' and the strange section about how we 'choose our own parents', Eddie begins to commentate, making offhand remarks about the content. He’s snarky and unexpectedly funny, coaxing abrupt bursts of laughter from Richie.

"If the only thing we're ever dealing with is thought," Eddie starts, already grinning, "does that mean I can just manifest, or whatever and suddenly not care that I'm only 5'9 and someone called me a twink on the street yesterday?"

Richie brings a hand to his mouth to stifle his laughter and Eddie’s eyes shine as he continues. "And if I chose my path—apparently before I was born, which makes _complete_ sense by the way—does that mean I chose to be queer and only 5'9? Or, a _twink_ , I guess, which I don’t think is a fair assessment. But, if the guy in front of the coffee shop says it’s true, then I can’t argue it."

This only makes Richie laugh harder, and he can tell that Eddie is trying to get a word in, but he eventually gives up, grinning as Richie wipes tears from his eyes. It might be a bit much, but half of it is the pleasant shock that this is the most Eddie has spoken to him at once. This, of all things.

At the tail end of Richie's laughter, Eddie asks, “Do you use this book? For actual _guidance_ and whatnot?” 

“Sometimes. It’s not all terrible,” Richie admits, blushing as he remembers obsessing over the relationship chapter when he was 21. "Yeah a lot of it is cheesy and preachy, but there are good things in here, I think. I don't think it's a bad thing to have, like, guidance sometimes."

"Maybe not," Eddie concedes. "I usually go with my intuition though. Which has...gotten me in trouble sometimes."

Richie sobers quickly, watching Eddie’s expression fade into something softer. "Well...there's a lot about intuition in here."

Eddie chews his lip, and throws one arm over the back of the couch, keeping a steady gaze on Richie's face. “I bet there is.”

It’s as if little fires are starting under Richie’s skin, and it should be illegal that Eddie can make him feel this way without laying a finger on him. He looks inviting all spread out like this, jeans low on his hips, his wrinkled t-shirt, sleepy eyes. Richie wants to crawl into his lap, even if it's only to run both hands through his hair, down the back of his neck, over his shoulders, and lower to trail over his chest. Even if it’s only to sit still and listen to him breathe.

Eddie is smiling when Richie meets his eyes again, lifting himself out of his seat. He takes the book from Richie’s hand, placing it neatly back in the box, and Richie holds his breath as Eddie crawls forward between his legs. 

"This is okay, right?" he asks, turning to lean his back against Richie’s chest. Richie nods, speechless, trying to keep his head from spinning. Just like last week, Eddie relaxes immediately, sighing when Richie wraps both arms around his waist. He drapes both of his arms atop Richie's, fingers encircling Richie's wrists. It’s almost too much, the complete weight of him, the tickle of his hair on Richie's chin, his socked foot against Richie's calf.

With his head on Richie's shoulder, Eddie falls asleep. Richie takes a deep breath, his senses surrounded with Eddie’s presence. He won't be able to sleep, there are too many impulsive thoughts popping into his head, fighting against the rational part of his thinking. _It would make sense to kiss the shell of_ _Eddie's ear, right? Totally okay and appropriate, right?_

Richie looks over at the photo on the TV stand again, at the faceless man who has Eddie's heart.

 _Is he as kind and gentle?_

* * *

When Richie comes back the next week, the photo is gone. 

This time Eddie reaches for him with eager hands, without much of a greeting. Richie finds himself lying face to face with him on the couch, cramped, with their knees slotted together. There’s something new radiating from Eddie today, something akin to desperation. 

If Richie were more selfish, he could see it as sheer want. He could close himself off to reality and let this add to the constant buzz of excitement he feels whenever they're close. But, he can’t. There’s a reason why Eddie sought this service out, Richie remembers. As much as he wishes it weren’t the case, this is not about him. There's something Eddie needs— it's in his wide, searching eyes, in the way his thumb presses into the palm of Richie's hand. 

Richie slides a hand down his arm, waiting for Eddie to relax under his touch. Eddie seems to try too, shifting into it, attempting to readjust to a more comfortable position.

“Do you want me to spoon you?” Richie asks, after a few unsuccessful minutes. "You liked when I held you like that last time."

Eddie turns, pressing their bodies together from head to toe. Richie wraps his arm around Eddie's waist, squeezing a little more firm than he would if Eddie weren’t still wiggling. He keeps a hand still on Eddie's chest, waiting for Eddie’s erratic heart rate to fall into a natural rhythm. 

"Thank you," Eddie says, his voice just above a whisper. "You're so good at this."

Richie’s cheeks grow warm, and he’s glad Eddie can’t see his face. "It's my job.”

"No, but you...it's like you just know what I need, without me asking you."

The connection is undeniable and if asked directly, Richie wouldn’t be able to lie about it. This is easy for them, coming together and sharing space without filling time with empty words. Being close to Eddie feels right, as if the puzzle that is Richie's universe finally snapped its last two pieces together. 

On a surface level, it’s not uncommon for someone to lean into Richie's touch. Deeper though, there’s more—he wants them wrapped around each other, breathing each other in like a life force and there’s a part of him, however small, that believes that Eddie wants this too. When he's done with these sessions, Richie takes Eddie home with him. At night when he’s alone under the covers, he wishes Eddie was filling out the other side of his bed. He wishes they could do this in the dark, letting their hands wander past what's allowed.

Richie thinks of him during sessions with other clients, feeling like an unfaithful spouse. He knows he’s distracted, knows he isn’t giving as much as he should because his mind is so occupied with thoughts of Eddie and his stimulating energy. What’s worse is that the more he thinks of it, the more he realizes that it’s _Eddie_ he feels unfaithful to, as if he should be spending the time with him instead. 

As Eddie snores softly in his arms, he glances at the empty space on the TV stand, where the framed picture once was. Then, he closes his eyes, and eventually drifts off to sleep.

* * *

Their fourth meeting is at a hotel, something which Richie has only done once before. 

It's a three hour session, a whopping 350 bucks plus the room. Eddie had explained, in a message that Richie refused to look too much into, that his fiance would be off work for a few days.

When Richie arrives, stepping into the room to join him, he feels it right away. Before they even touch, he knows Eddie is tense. He’s quiet, chewing his thumbnail, hovering near the door as Richie steps inside and takes off his shoes. The anxious energy fills the small room, stopping Richie in his tracks. He turns back, gives Eddie a reassuring smile, and holds out his hand. Eddie takes it, placing his clammy palm gingerly atop Richie’s.

Cuddling in bed with a stranger is intimidating to a lot of people, especially when you add the implications of a hotel. Away from home, comfortable but not _too_ comfortable, with the added taboo connotation of sneaking away to be alone. They aren’t sneaking, but Richie’s persistent urge to do more than he’s allowed makes it feel like they are. Eddie has a fiance at home who presumably knows where Eddie is, what he’s doing, and that he’s doing it with a stranger. _Presumably_ , the only reason they’re here and not on Eddie’s couch is because they wouldn’t be able to be alone at the apartment. Richie cannot and will not let himself entertain any other ridiculous, unrealistic scenarios.

If Eddie’s fiance didn’t know they were here, then what, other than Richie’s annoying penchant for following the rules, would keep them from staying the whole night? They could, even if all they do is lie on top of the covers all night, keeping their hands above their clothes and their lips to themselves.

There’s a queen size bed in the center of the room, white pillows, beige comforter. Standard and boring, nothing that screams romance or sex, but that doesn’t mean Richie can get the thought of his head.

They crawl into the bed at the same time, falling together in a spooning position. It might be Richie's favorite, he decides, as Eddie brings Richie’s hand to his chest. Though it's presumptuous to assume that Eddie needs or even _wants_ to feel protected, Richie still feels important knowing he’s here for Eddie in any way. It could mean anything that Eddie clings to him a bit harder when they lie like this, but Richie may not ever find out why. All he knows is how it would be easy to place kisses to his neck, on his shoulder and down his spine, to the small of his back. He hasn’t stopped thinking about Eddie pulling him closer and whispering, ‘ _you’re so good at this_.' He’s good at other things too, he thinks, wondering what Eddie would sound like if Richie were to-

Eddie begins to fidget, bringing Richie out of his indulgent daydreams. Richie moves, rolling onto his back. "Sorry," Eddie mumbles, and repositions himself so he's curled next to Richie's side, his head on Richie’s belly. A little lower and he'd be right against Richie's crotch, mouthing at him until he's fully hard and ready-

Richie starts to groan, and immediately stops himself.

Eddie tilts his head up to look at him, brows furrowed, and Richie feels like he's been caught.

"You okay?" Richie deflects, bringing a hand to Eddie's head. He gently combs his fingers through his soft hair, massaging at the nape of his neck. 

Eddie goes lax, sighing. "Better now.” Still, there's a tremendous amount of nervous energy coming from him, his knee bouncing and his foot tapping restlessly against Richie’s leg. There's a small percentage of him that isn't letting go, so Richie tries a different approach hooking his calf over Eddie’s ankle to keep him still.

Suddenly Eddie sits up with a huff, wrenching himself out of Richie's grasp. "Shit, I'm sorry."

"No, you're fine." Richie sits up too, ready to tell Eddie it’s okay if they stop. They haven’t been here for long. He’ll give Eddie his money back—that isn’t what would hurt him the most anyway. Selfishly, scolds himself for not being able to give Eddie what he needs. Maybe Eddie spoke too soon, and Richie isn’t as good at this as he thinks.

“I’m just really tense,” Eddie explains, forcing out another exhale. “I feel like I can’t relax.” 

“I could…” Richie thinks, and has to take a deep breath of his own. “I could rub your back?” 

Eddie opens his mouth, stuttering around a few words. “If that’s okay with you," he says, then rushes to add. "I’ll pay extra. I have money-” 

“It’s fine,” Richie insists, because it is. He couldn't take extra money from him, even if it _would_ help him pay his rent. “No, you already paid, it's all good.” 

Eddie lies on his stomach, with his arms at his sides. Richie sits next to him, taking the opportunity to steal a greedy look at him. His toned arms, the taut muscle of his back under his shirt, the natural curve of his spine, his hips, his ass, his legs. Every part of him is so beautiful.

“I’m not a massage therapist,” Richie says, bringing his hands to Eddie’s shoulders. “So...keep that in mind.” 

"I trust you,” Eddie says, half muffled by the pillows.

Richie curls his fingers and presses his thumbs into the tense muscles until they release. Then, drags his hands down over Eddie’s shoulder blades, applying gentle pressure with the heels of his palms. Moving lower, he cups a hand on each side to massage his ribs. Eddie arches into it, letting out something that is way too close to a moan. Something familiar stirs inside Richie, something warm and yearning. Richie supposes that _any_ sound Eddie makes in this situation would get the same reaction. Still, he’s more selfish than he thought because he repeats the action, nearly keening when Eddie makes the same exact sound, low in his throat. There's a sliver of exposed skin at the small of his back where his shirt rides up, and each time he moves, the shirt rolls up more. Richie could bunch it up even higher, over his ribs, and roll him over…could get between his legs and kiss the bare skin of his chest, lower, and lower-

“I think I need…" Eddie says, lifting his head. He hesitates, starting and stopping multiple times before he gets the words out. “I don’t know if it’s more money if I ask you to lay on top of me? I feel kind of silly for asking, but sometimes a little extra weight helps me.” 

Richie stops moving, almost stops breathing. “It isn’t- no, it’s okay.” 

Eddie turns over and with a nod, he signals that he's ready.

"I'm heavy," Richie warns, anything to buy him more time to prepare himself. There’s also the whole ‘I’m inappropriately half hard just from touching your back’ situation that he’s dealing with. 

"That's a good thing,” Eddie says, patting his thighs. There’s a tiny smile playing on his lips, nervous, but enough to tell Richie that he’s actually okay with this.

"Alright, okay," Richie says, straddling his thighs. Eddie looks up at him, trusting, so Richie braces his forearms on either side of Eddie’s body, nods again, and releases all of his weight against Eddie’s chest. 

Eddie exhales in a huff, warm over Richie's lips. Their faces are close, Eddie’s lips just out of reach. Richie has to crane his neck a bit to keep their noses from touching.

“Is this okay?” Richie asks, and immediately hates the panic in his tone.

“Yeah, thanks,” Eddie answered, a little strained.

"Can you breathe like this?" Richie asks, sounding even more panicked.

"Yeah, I’m fine. It's nice, Richie." Eddie chuckles, slightly breathless, and wraps his arms around Richie’s waist. The patented buzz returns, this time with an added warmth. Eddie’s nervous smile has faded, replaced with a softer expression, parted lips and half-lidded eyes. 

Richie keeps his gaze, his heart pounding, and manages a few minutes without losing his mind, until Eddie starts to wiggle under him. _That’s_ when he starts to lose his mind a little. Eddie must feel it, Richie's full length pressing at his thigh. Richie shifts, attempting to inconspicuously adjust himself. Then, he feels it—Eddie is hard too, and that’s what allows Richie to spiral into a fantasy of stripping him, spreading his legs, and sinking into him slowly. Would Eddie look at him the way he is now, docile and unwary?

 _I’m screwed_ , Richie thinks, watching Eddie bring his lower lip between his teeth. He doesn’t say another word, because he knows his voice would betray him. 

This is natural, Richie reminds himself. Things like this have happened before during sessions, though never this intense and never on _his_ end. Still, it’s just best not to acknowledge it and let it pass. 

He waits until Eddie’s eyes flutter closed, waits until he’s sleeping soundly, before rolling over carefully. He takes Eddie’s hand, contemplating bringing it to his chest, and stares up at the ceiling. 

“I’m screwed.”

* * *

**Eddie** : _I was thinking we could meet for coffee? There's a place near where I work, across the street from a bookstore, I think? I know it's short notice._

_Tuesday, July 9th 12 PM-1 PM_

It’s tomorrow afternoon, fairly short notice for anyone to schedule a session or a meeting. Usually Richie likes a little more notice, just to mentally prepare to hold space for someone. But, this is Eddie Kaspbrak. The man who could literally put a collar and leash on him and lead him around Southern California without hearing a single protest. It's only been two days since they were in the hotel room, where Eddie spent half the time sleeping and the other half cuddled up to Richie’s side, commentating a game show with the sound off. Neither of them spoke of the ‘inappropriate erection’ situation, and it’s better that way. Richie will keep that memory with him, though in his mind it ends a lot differently. 

**Richie** : _Sure. I'm coming back from an appointment at 11:45, but I'll be there._

Richie pulls up to the coffee shop five minutes late, but Eddie waves off his apology and says, “I’m just happy to see you.” He’s wearing his work shirt, unbuttoned, with the sleeves rolled up on his biceps. He's smiling, wide and genuine, dimples on full display.

“I’m happy to see you, too.”

They order their drinks and argue about who's going to pay. Richie ends up buying, after promising that Eddie can pay next time. _Next time_. There will be a next time, and hopefully many more after this. 

Once they’re seated in the back corner with their coffee—Eddie drinks his black because he got used to going without the luxury of cream or sugar, he says. Richie admits that he won't drink coffee without tons of sweetener and vanilla flavoring— they start discussing music, spurred on by the awful choice playing over the speakers. Eddie talks about how much he likes artists like Bob Dylan and the Velvet Underground, and blushes when he adds that he has a soft spot for old country music. Richie raves about 90’s alternative and how his mom went with him to see The Pixies during their reunion tour. Eddie chuckles, claiming he had pegged Richie as the 90's alt-rock type from the glasses and wardrobe alone. Richie flicks a crumpled straw wrapper at him, and Eddie just grins, reaching out to hold Richie's hand.

They're in their own bubble, tucked away from most prying eyes in the shop, fingers laced together, leaning over the table to speak in hushed voices like secret lovers. 

It's nearing the end of their hour when Eddie leans back in his seat and scratches his blunt nail against Richie's palm. “So, um, I did something that you might think is a little weird.” 

Richie holds his breath. It could be anything, he tells himself, _don't get your hopes up._ “Okay.” 

“Uh, so, last month, when I saw you at the shop, I thought you were...interesting. And you told me about your job, which only made me more, um, well, interested, I guess." Eddie forces out an exhale and picks at the skin of his bottom lip, looking at Richie like he's waiting on him to run. "So, um, the guy I worked on your car with told me your name so I, uh... I looked for you on a bunch of different professional cuddling apps.” 

Richie chokes on the breath he's holding. “You looked for me?” 

“Until I found you," Eddie says, and when Richie literally gasps, he continues speaking, rushing the words out. "Listen, I know I lied about not recognizing you, and that’s kind of fucked up, but I thought maybe the truth would freak you out.” 

There's sweat practically pooling between their hands now, but neither of them lets go. 

“Oh," Richie says, suddenly dizzy. "So, like...wait _, what_?"

Eddie is quick to defend himself, panic rising in his tone. “I know it’s weird- this isn’t- I’m not trying to- I don’t want to do anything that isn’t comfortable for you. I just really like hanging out with you, is all.”

"Okay, yeah, um-" Richie looks around the coffee shop, at their private table in the back, then down at their clasped hands. This is a date. This is a fucking _date_. He should pull away, should politely excuse himself, but he doesn't. He just stares down at their hands and stutters, “We can’t- you have… and I can’t-” 

“Hey, I know, I know." Eddie squeezes his hands firmly and it doesn't help Richie's conflicting feelings. "I could use a friend though.” 

Richie looks up to meet Eddie's wide, earnest eyes. "Okay."

Eddie slips a piece of paper out of his pocket and slides it across the table. "I wanted to give you my number."

Richie, clearly on autopilot, takes it and repeats: “Okay."

“I want to keep seeing you- for sessions. And maybe, sometimes we can hang out like this too?”

Richie blinks. "Okay."

The alarm on Richie's phone sounds and Eddie stands up first, still holding Richie's hand. "I should get back to work."

"Yeah, okay." Richie manages to unglue himself from the chair and stands up. "I- um- I'm sorry, I'm just still trying to process things."

"That's okay." Eddie smiles and lets go of Richie's hand, only to step forward and pull him into a hug. Richie catches on late, bringing his arms around Eddie's waist as he pulls away. 

With his hands on Richie's chest, Eddie whispers, "Thank you for coming," then stands on his toes to kiss Richie's cheek.

It leaves him reeling, standing there holding the back of the chair for balance as he watches Eddie walk away.

At home, Richie puts Eddie's number in his phone, lights a joint, and opens his journal.

_July 9th- Eddie Kaspbrak has me, and there are a plethora of reasons to feel guilty about it. Even my silent fantasies feel like overstepping a boundary. I can’t help that I want him, maybe more than I've wanted anyone in my entire life, and I really hope it isn't because I can't have him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this feels like slow burn, but like, it isn't.
> 
> anyway, I'm on twitter @ [curiousair](https://twitter.com/curiousair) come talk to me.


	3. the resolute urgency of now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 💦💦💦
> 
> title credit- tonight tonight, by the smashing pumpkins

They’re friends. They’ve been hanging out for two weeks, nearly every other day. Just a few days into the first week, they were at the park, lying close on the grass, watching each other instead of the clouds, when Eddie had said: "It feels weird right? Me paying you to be my...friend?" To which Richie responded with: "So, don't pay. We're friends."

So, they're friends. They meet for lunch, always splitting the bill down the middle. They watch episodes of Daria and Beavis and Butthead on Richie’s laptop, reminiscing about how shitty their teenage years had been. They meet at the park to smoke, hidden behind a cluster of trees, passing a joint between them until they’re giggling at nothing. 

When they aren’t together, Eddie texts him, always at the perfect times, as if he can predict when Richie is thinking about him. They’re usually simple ‘how are you's and notes about his day, but sometimes they’re things that can’t possibly be interpreted as anything other than ‘ _I wish I was with you_.’ One night Eddie sent a text late, asking if Richie was awake, apologizing if he wasn't. Richie called him and said: “You can talk to me any time, you know.” They talked for an hour, about books and movies, laughing softly into the receiver, and it could have been hours more if Eddie hadn’t started to fall asleep. “I think about you a lot,” Eddie had said around a yawn, and somehow that feels even more intimate than anything else. 

They're friends.

Richie still cuddles him, always during the day, never longer than an hour, and _no massages_. Eddie still insists on paying sometimes, as if he hasn't figured out that Richie is getting just as much out of this, if not more. Getting his hands on Eddie is a gift on its own, even if it’s only them falling into bed and holding each other. Without the money involved, it feels more like an illicit secret than a strange arrangement. 

Now that Eddie isn’t his client, the walls have come down even more. They laugh more, touch with just a little more intent, hold each other’s gaze for that much longer. Sometimes, much to Richie’s delight—or detriment, he hasn’t decided which—Eddie cups a hand to his jaw, brushes a thumb over his cheek, and flits his gaze down to Richie’s lips.

They’re friends. And friends have lunch with each other, watch TV together, and a lot of times they even hold hands and cuddle. But, friends don't look at each other the way they do. They don’t stare longingly, stuck in the bittersweet limbo of knowing what could be if things were different. If Eddie weren’t with someone else. 

Every time they go out for lunch, Eddie gives Richie a hug and kisses his cheek. Richie never kisses him back because he’s already torturing himself enough. If he were a reckless person, if he _really_ wanted to screw himself over, he’d bring both of his hands to the back of Eddie’s head and kiss him hard, licking the seam of his mouth to coax his lips open, chasing a moan that would vibrate through both of them. It’s an increasingly painful urge, and the fact that he’s been successful in fighting it is his only saving grace. 

Eddie has his work shirt off today, tossed over the back of his chair to reveal a thin white t-shirt that shouldn’t make Richie’s mouth water the way it does. They're sitting in the outdoor seating area of a Thai restaurant, knee deep in a passionate discussion about how college is a scam. Eddie never went to college, but he explains, with an overly aggressive hand gesture, that he knew higher education was 'bullshit' when he found out you could be a ‘fucking genius’ and still not get into your number one university choice.

“It’s all a money thing.” He waves a hand dismissively, stirring his straw in his iced tea with the other. “Don’t need college to own an auto repair shop anyway.”

“That’s your dream?” Richie asks. He can imagine it, Eddie being the boss, calling all the shots. Giving Richie a kiss on the forehead every morning before he leaves for work.

“When you call it a dream, it sounds stupid,” Eddie says, with a roll of his eyes. He’s smiling softly, a wistful look in his eye. “But yeah, I guess it is.”

“I can imagine it,” Richie says. “I think you’d be good at it.”

Eddie scrunches his nose and waves him off. “Enough about me though, what about you? What’s _your_ _dream_?”

“Well, I’ve always wanted to be a writer,” Richie admits. It’s always a strange thing to say out loud, and it only gets more pathetic the older he gets. It’s perfectly acceptable to have a dream like this when you’re a baby-faced college freshman, but when you’re a 34 year old who has never finished a single piece of writing, it’s more depressing than anything.

“A writer,” Eddie says, his eyes widening with interest. He smiles, and it makes Richie go warm. “What kind of things do you write?”

“Right now I’m just writing personal stuff. I like non-fiction. I’ve played around with the idea of a memoir, but…” Richie trails off, contemplating if he should reveal the embarrassing truth. “Well, my life isn’t that interesting.” 

Eddie offers an incredulous laugh in return. “You cuddle people for a living, Richie.” 

“Me and the thousand other people here. My life is pretty average compared to other LA residents,” Richie scoffs. “My roommate makes money on Instagram doing god knows what and my neighbor is a dominatrix, for god’s sake. I kind of blend in next to them.” 

"I still think you're the most interesting person I've ever met,” Eddie says, with a wide, genuine grin. “I’d read your memoir."

Richie’s face burns, but he rolls his eyes anyway. "Alright, now you're just trying to flatter me."

"Maybe so," Eddie laughs. There’s a pink tint to his cheeks now, which Richie takes delight in. 

“Well, it’s working,” Richie says, as their server approaches the table with their food. Richie ordered pad see ew, because it’s what he gets every time he orders Thai food, and Eddie ordered a curry that he carefully requested the kitchen make ‘spicy, but not too spicy.’ 

“Did you grow up in LA?” Eddie asks, before taking a big bite of his food. “Wow, okay, that’s good.”

“A little north of here. Almost the desert, but not quite. What about you?” 

“East coast, mostly Jersey and New York, but I moved around a lot.” 

Richie can hear it now, the remnants of a vague east coast accent. “Oh, why?” 

The energy shifts so quickly that Richie wants to take his question back. Eddie sucks his teeth and glances at his plate, tapping his fork on the edge. “I was, uh, basically in foster homes for my entire childhood.” 

Richie takes a breath and it nearly gets caught in his chest. “I was in a foster home until I was ten, then my mom adopted me." 

"Oh.” Eddie’s brows raise when he looks up to meet Richie’s eyes. “That’s really cool. You got lucky.”

Richie blinks, taken aback. He loves his mom, but he wouldn’t use the word lucky to describe his life. It took him years to come to terms with being given away as a baby, passed around to different biological family members, before they gave up on him too. “I- I guess?”

Eddie winces, then looks apologetic. “Shit, I’m sorry. That came out super bitter. I wasn’t- I promise that wasn’t how I meant it.”

“Yeah, no, I know.” Richie shakes his head and twirls his fork in his food. “It’s just weird to talk about sometimes.”

“I get that. My, um- my mom passed when I was a baby and my dad...I never knew him.” Eddie shrugs, like it’s nothing, takes another big bite of his food, and moves the conversation along. "Anyway, as soon as I turned 18 I moved to LA. You know, the California dream and all that. I needed something different."

"What did you do when you moved?” Richie asks, thankful for the new topic. “Did you know anyone here?"

"Nope. I got to know people quickly though. I think people flock to me- okay that sounds conceited, sorry," he chuckles and shakes his head. "But yeah, I was young, I met a guy, lived with him for a while, then another guy and...you get the pattern, right?"

“Right.” Again, Richie isn’t a jealous person. He just knows how LA is, how it can chew you up and spit you out before you even realize what went wrong. It's too easy to let his mind spiral into thoughts of Eddie being young and getting taken advantage of.

“There was a little while of that, then a whole lot of nothing, then I met my fiance," Eddie says, all too quickly. "We were on and off for a while until last year.”

Richie may not be a jealous person, but he’s definitely curious. Eddie rarely talks about his relationship, and Richie isn't so desperate that he'd ever bring him up first. “Oh. How are things...with him? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Eddie takes a minute to answer, starting and stopping a couple of times before sighing and giving Richie a rather dejected look. Richie reaches over the table to hold his hand and Eddie sighs again, looking at their clasped hands.

“It’s been hard.”

Richie stays quiet, allowing Eddie the space to open up. The selfish part of him absolutely needs this, squeezing Eddie’s hand, comforting him, providing for him.

“He um… he cheated on me. Not recently… but, like, when we first got together. I forgave him.” Eddie stops, choking on the last few words. He blinks a few times and tries to force a laugh, despite the tears welling up in his eyes. He brings a hand to his face, attempting to hide. “Ah, shit, I hate crying in front of people.” 

“It’s okay,” Richie says, moving his chair to sit closer. The second Richie puts a hand on Eddie's shoulder, Eddie sobs.

“Oh, man, I’m sorry,” he hiccups, dragging his knuckles over his eyes.

“It’s okay,” Richie repeats, handing him a napkin.

“I thought if we got engaged it would make me forget, but I haven’t and things have been distant for a while and I'm-” Eddie clears his throat, his voice is wet and his lip trembles as he continues. “I'm alone a lot. And when we talk, we argue. It’s just not looking good for us and I’m- I don’t even fucking know-”

Richie does what he's good at, wrapping both arms around him to pull him close. Eddie sniffles, burying his face in Richie's chest. Every time Eddie heaves and sobs, Richie feels it, almost as if he's aching with it too. He smooths a hand over Eddie's back and, with all the boldness he can muster, he kisses the top of Eddie’s head.

Almost immediately, Eddie stops crying. He lifts his head, showing Richie his teary eyes. He brings his soft, warm hand to Richie’s cheek and whispers fiercely: “Fuck, I am so glad that I have you.” 

At the end of lunch, after they walk each other to their cars, when Eddie kisses Richie’s cheek, Richie kisses him back. A chaste kiss that lands more on his temple than his cheek. Eddie gives him another hug, holding on longer than before. They stand in the parking lot, out in the open, holding each other tight until Eddie finally pulls away, smiling over his shoulder as he gets into his car. 

_July 23rd-_ _I’ve been avoiding the truth for weeks, but here it is: I'm the other man. It’s official. I don’t feel as guilty anymore, but the idea of karma scares the shit out of me…I just really want to kiss him again._

* * *

Their next date extends past the safe hours of the afternoon and stretches on until nearly dusk. The light streaming in from the windows at the front of the cafe has gone orange and the fixture above their heads now casts a yellow glow over them. They’ve abandoned their drinks, letting condensation pool around them on the table, and the alarm on Richie’s phone sounded hours ago.

They sit close, giving in little by little, toeing the line of the boundaries Richie knows they shouldn’t cross. Every time he thinks better of it, the familiar buzz and Eddie’s commanding energy pull him back in, fueling his recklessness. Their touches linger, fingertips trailing over the delicate skin on the inside of the other’s arm, hands traveling from their knees up to their thighs, more of a suggestion than anything else. 

Their surroundings fade into the background, until all Richie can see, hear, and feel is Eddie overwhelming his senses. The hushed sighs that escape him when Richie cups a hand to the nape of his neck and massages a thumb behind his ear, his hushed voice when he tells Richie how good it feels, the low groan in his throat that tells Richie not to stop. The telling glint in his dark eyes before they flutter closed, the curl of his lips, the deep dimples in his cheeks when he offers a satisfied smile. The way he constantly leans in closer, his warm breath across Richie’s face when he exhales, his thumbnail tracing lines up the palm of Richie’s other hand, gently scraping the length of every single finger. 

Richie drapes his arm over Eddie’s shoulder, following Eddie’s gaze to their intertwined fingers, then leans down to speak quietly in his ear, as if it’s a necessity. “It’s getting late.” 

When Eddie turns to look at him fully, the shell of his ear touches Richie’s lips, an unfair taste that leaves Richie breathless. Eddie slides his hand higher up Richie’s thigh, tightens his grip, and whispers, “We should leave.”

In the parking lot, Richie pulls him into a hug, breathing him in for a moment before Eddie pulls back, resting both hands on Richie’s chest. There’s urgency in Eddie’s eyes, asking without words, daring Richie to answer.

With his hands at the small of Eddie’s back, Richie imagines them kissing, wild, pressed against the side of his car, clinging to each other in the setting sun.

Instead, he slides one hand up, spreading his fingers over Eddie's ribs, watching his eyes darken. 

Licking his lips, Eddie asks, “What are you doing tonight?” 

“Nothing. I didn’t have any plans." 

Eddie pauses, giving Richie a contemplative look. Then, against Richie’s waiting lips, he says, "Have a good night.” 

No kiss on the cheek, not another word, no glance over his shoulder as he walks away.

Approximately an hour later, just when Richie is moments away from throwing decency out of the window to call Eddie and beg him to come over, there’s a knock on the back door. Richie stills his hand where it rests atop his half-hard dick and waits for the knocking to stop or for someone else to answer it. 

After a few minutes, and coming to the annoying realization that no one else is home, he drops his phone and steps into the hall to open the door.

“Hi,” Eddie says, taking his hands out of his pockets. He has the same urgency in his eyes, the sheer want that Richie had previously talked himself out of noticing.

Richie wants to touch him just as much as he did an hour ago, weeks ago, the very moment they met. “Hey.” 

“Hi,” Eddie repeats, reaching for Richie’s hand. He hooks his pinky over Richie’s and steps over the threshold, bringing his other hand to Richie’s cheek. 

“Hey,” Richie says again, his heart pounding out of his chest as Eddie closes the short distance between them.

For a moment, Richie melts into it, letting his knees go weak and the spark of Eddie’s lips ignite him, letting Eddie’s slick tongue lick into his mouth. Then he pulls away, squeezing his eyes shut because his poor, desperate heart doesn’t stand a chance against Eddie's perpetually intense stare.

"It's okay," Eddie brushes his thumb over Richie's lips. "It is, I promise. Can I come in?" 

Richie moves aside to let Eddie in, and together they walk down the hall to his bedroom. He shuts the door behind them, taking a second to cool down and collect his thoughts. This is brand new. Eddie has been in his bedroom before, yes, but there's a new tension between them, compounded by all the things they've kept themselves from doing. All the times they've touched and yearned for more. They're at another precipice, dangerously close to the edge, and once they step over, there's no going back. They should talk about this. They should sit and discuss what this means, but his head is spinning too much to figure out what to say first. ' _I want you, in every single way_ ' he wants to tell him. ‘ _Please tell me this is real’_ he wants to say. ‘ _Don’t leave me when you find someone better.’_

When Richie turns, Eddie is sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning back with both hands flat on the comforter and his legs spread, the unmistakable bulge in his jeans clearly visible. The sight leaves Richie speechless, giving him a head rush and an aching hard-on all at once. Eddie drags his gaze up Richie’s body and bites his lip, offering nothing but a suggestive tilt of his head when they lock eyes again. 

Richie steps forward, and Eddie reaches for him, pulling him in by the waistband of his shorts. He ghosts his hand over Richie’s thigh, over where Richie wants to be touched the most, and slides his hand up and underneath Richie’s shirt, against the hair on his belly. Eddie looks up at him then, and Richie shivers, swallowing the dryness in his mouth as he combs his fingers through Eddie’s hair. Eddie sighs and drops his head back, closing his eyes. 

They fall into each other when their lips meet again and Eddie surrenders, letting Richie lower them to the bed. Richie slots himself between Eddie’s legs, dropping his knees to the edge of the mattress, and Eddie hooks his legs over Richie’s thighs, a firm hand on his ass to bring him closer. Richie breathes in Eddie's clean scent as he kisses his neck, as they move fervently against each other like concurrent waves, indulging in the thrill of finally yielding to their desires. 

When Eddie says Richie’s name, formed around a needy whimper, Richie stops. He pulls back as far as he can, propping himself up on his forearms to look at Eddie’s face. “Eddie, I...” Richie is on fire, his breath already labored. He can’t even finish a thought, much less a coherent sentence. All he knows is want, and he has Eddie at his fingertips, willing and wanting him just as much. 

“I really like you.” Eddie cups Richie’s jaw, knowing very well how Richie will melt into the gesture. "You're such a good person, you make me feel so good." 

"You make me feel good too." Richie kisses him harder, grinding against him, shaking with the fiery energy that rapidly builds between them. He holds Eddie’s thighs tight around his hips and moves them up the bed, growing hotter at the surprised gasp that escapes from Eddie’s kiss-swollen lips. “I’ve never wanted anyone more than you.”

Eddie flips them over, smirking at how easy Richie goes, and straddles Richie’s lap. Richie sits up, bracing one hand behind him and one on Eddie’s lower back, and they come together in another deep, languid kiss. The way Eddie takes control is dizzying, sucking Richie’s tongue into his mouth, biting his lower lip and chasing the sting with a sweeter kiss. 

“I’m really fucking attracted to you. Everything about you,” Eddie says, cradling Richie’s head in his hands. He kisses the corners of Richie’s lips, along his jaw, tracing his tongue over the shell of Richie’s ear. “I’ve never felt like this before, I feel like I’m losing my mind. You're just— every part of you is so beautiful.” 

“ _Shit_ , Eddie.” Richie sits up completely and pulls him closer, sliding both hands up the back of his t-shirt. “When I first saw you, I wanted to kiss you. I wanted to touch you like I'm touching you now, I wanted to make you feel good.” 

Eddie grins, takes his shirt off, and rucks Richie’s shirt up his torso. “Can I?” Richie nods, letting Eddie help him pull the t-shirt over his head. He's eager to get his hands on Eddie’s bare skin, the sparse hair on his taut chest, his shoulders, his toned stomach. And  _ oh_, Richie has to stop for a moment, belatedly noticing Eddie’s tattoos _. _ Black and white wildflowers over his chest, laced with barbed wire, small lettering on his ribs, a feather on his hip. “You’re so hot, I can’t believe it,” he utters, more to himself than anything. 

“Thank you,” Eddie says and a blush that’s inappropriately innocent blooms on his cheeks and down his neck.

After a few minutes admiring him, Richie gets back to work making him moan, sucking his nipples until they're hard and dripping, licking along the column of his neck, kissing and biting his earlobe just to feel him writhe.

"I could just-” Richie groans, looking up at his dark eyes. “I could just devour you." 

"So do it." 

Richie rolls them over and tugs Eddie’s jeans and boxers off in one go, stopping to take off his shoes and socks, which makes Eddie laugh. Before taking his glasses off, Richie steals another minute to take everything in, practically drooling as he stares at Eddie laid out naked before him. His hairy thighs, his leaking cock, his heaving chest. He’s so  _ put together_, he can’t possibly be real. Richie just might have died and gone to heaven, he thinks as he spreads Eddie’s legs. He wastes no time flattening his tongue over Eddie’s hole, licking a stripe over his balls and over the length of his dick before taking it into his mouth. The noise Eddie makes in response is enough to get Richie humping the bed, searching for any sort of relief. He could do this all night, pressing his dick against the mattress as he mouths between Eddie's legs, tasting him, making him whine.

“I want you so much,” Eddie says, and Richie can hear it in his ragged voice, can feel it in the way he quivers under Richie’s tongue.

Into the crease of Eddie’s thigh, Richie rasps, “You can have me, in any way you want. I’ll do anything, I'll give you anything.” 

“Want you to fuck me,” Eddie breathes, his fingers tangled in Richie’s hair. 

“I really want to fuck you,” Richie admits, licking at his hole again, at a teasing pace.

Eddie keens, rolling his hips. “Will you let me ride you?” 

“I’d let you do anything to me.” 

Richie sits back on the bed and takes the rest of his clothes off, which Eddie has a lot to say about.

"I  _ knew _ it," he says, in awe. "I knew you had a big dick."

Glowing at the gratuitous praise, Richie finds lube in a crate next to his bed, but he basically overturns his bedside drawer looking for a condom. He kisses the smirk off of Eddie’s face and gets situated in the middle of the bed.  _ He's so beautiful _ , Richie thinks as Eddie straddles his thighs, placing both hands on his shoulders. He hisses, another flush of red crawling down his chest, when Richie reaches between his legs to open him up with two careful fingers. 

Eddie lowers himself on Richie dick slowly, pausing halfway before he’s flush with Richie’s lap. The tight heat of Eddie clenching and relaxing around him leaves both of them panting and shaking. “Oh my god,” Eddie says, with a low, throaty whine, and it takes everything in Richie not to explode right then. Eddie's half-lidded eyes, his gorgeous dick bobbing against his belly, and the line of sweat already trickling between his pecs are better than any fantasy.

Richie thrusts shallowly, wanting to make it last, wanting to revel in how it feels pumping into him. But, when Eddie starts to move, rising up onto his knees and sinking back down, Richie can’t take it. Eddie licks at Richie's open mouth, expertly rolling his hips, and Richie is sure Eddie is trying to snatch his fucking soul. Too weak to stay up, he falls onto his back, plants both feet on the bed, and bucks his hips up to meet Eddie's movements. Eddie moans brokenly and collapses, draping himself over Richie's chest to connect their lips in a tender kiss. 

“Richie,” he says, and Richie answers with an incoherent noise resembling the word ‘yes.' “Fuck me, please."

Richie rolls them over, not having to be told twice, hitches Eddie’s leg up, and fucks into him deeper with long, even strokes. Eddie curses and moans, raking his nails down Richie’s back. Richie grips the back of Eddie’s thigh, rocks into him again and again, not minding the sweat dripping from his forehead, and down his chest. Eddie falls apart, sprinkling curses and wordless exclamations in between chants of Richie's name. "Yeah, like that. Fuck, Richie, fuck me." 

Richie can barely catch his breath, too hypnotized by the way Eddie looks and feels underneath him. His gaping mouth, the sheen of sweat on his skin, the tension in his neck. "You feel so good. Better than I could have imagined." 

“You’re so good at this,” Eddie moans, as Richie finally gets a hand between them to touch his dick.

Into the heated skin of Eddie’s neck, Richie says, "I know," and at that Eddie twitches and comes into his fist, muttering Richie’s name over and over.

They kiss again, and Richie thrusts sloppily, shaking with his impending release. Eddie sucks a bruise in the crook of Richie’s neck and Richie comes with a choked moan, immediately going boneless, letting Eddie pull him into a sweaty embrace.

As they come down, they start to giggle, and Eddie seems content to have Richie lie on top of him forever. Richie is loose and uncoordinated as he gets up to discard the condom and to find something for Eddie to clean himself with. He puts his glasses on and hands Eddie one of their t-shirts, too lazy to look for anything else. Eddie accepts it, still giggling, and urges Richie to lie back down. The sweat begins to cool on their skin so they pull the covers over their bodies, slotting together the way they’re used to. Only this time, there’s no reason for them not to touch and kiss, letting their hands and lips wander with no destination in mind.

"I've wanted this for so long," Richie says.

"I know. Me too.” Eddie ducks his head and kisses Richie’s collarbones. “When I booked that hotel room I thought maybe…"

Richie's face goes hot. “Sneaky.” 

Eddie settles his head on the pillows, biting back a smile. "Don't make it sound like I was trying to  _ trap  _ you."

"I don't know if I would have been opposed to you  _ trapping _ me," Richie admits, tracing his fingers over Eddie’s tattoos, the words inked on his ribs. “‘When a flower grows wild, it can always survive.' What's that from?” 

"It's-" Eddie smiles, sheepishly. "It's from a Dolly Parton song.” 

“Oh my god." Richie is sure he's beaming at him, but there's no use in hiding it now. "I didn't know your love for country music ran that deep."

"I mean, it's mostly because I wanted to marry her when I was little. She was my ideal woman.” Eddie chuckles, and furrows his brows. “Which is a sentence I never thought I’d say out loud.”

"I love that." Truly, Richie does love it. It feels like he’s been given a little trinket from Eddie’s past, something to hold on to and cherish.

“Also, I just really love the song. It always resonated with me, the idea of just...going," Eddie says, his smile faltering. "I think about running away a lot."

Richie brushes the hair off of Eddie's forehead. “Yeah? To where?" 

“Anywhere. I- I have money put aside, and it feels like I've been waiting forever for the perfect moment to take it and leave." Eddie pauses and looks at the ceiling, then flits his gaze back to Richie. "And… I feel like that’s right now, with you.” 

It's like the world has stopped turning on its axis and everything around them has fallen away, leaving nothing but Eddie, his dark eyes, and mesmerizing aura.

"With...me?"

"I want you to come with me." 

A gasp slips out before he can catch it. “ _Eddie_.” 

“Richie, I-” 

“Okay, yeah," Richie rushes out, not wanting to give the impression that he's even  _ considering _ saying no. "I’ll go with you.” 

Eddie brings both hands to Richie's face, his expression soft. “Richie, don’t fuck with me. I-” 

“I would never," Richie says. "I don't say things I don't mean." 

"Richie," Eddie sighs, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips.

"I love how you say my name," Richie tells him, trying to tame the butterflies in his stomach.

"It's my favorite thing to say."

There's one thing keeping Richie from literally combusting with joy, and it sneaks up on him so fast it makes him a little queasy. "Hey, so...what about…?” Richie stops, realizing he doesn't even know the man's name. 

“I’ll tell him," Eddie answers, so serious it's scary. "I'll call him right now."

Richie's mouth goes dry. "Right now?" 

"Why put it off?" Eddie flings the covers off and climbs off the bed, picking up his jeans to retrieve his phone. He sits on the edge of the bed, scrolls through the phone and brings it to his ear.

"Hey," he says into the receiver, his tone clipped. He chews his thumbnail and takes a sharp breath. "I, um, just wanted to tell you that...we're done. I met someone new, and...I'm leaving-  _ we're  _ leaving and I don't know when or if we'll be back...yeah, okay. Bye."

Eddie hangs up, puts the phone aside, and turns to give Richie a wary smile. "Okay, so that's done."

It's surreal. In a less than 60 second phone call, Eddie just changed his entire life. Richie has never felt this enamored with anyone.

"Holy shit," Eddie sighs and it dissolves into giggles. “I can’t believe I did that?” 

Buzzing, Richie pulls Eddie on top of him for a clumsy kiss, their knees and elbows knocking together. Eddie continues to giggle against Richie's lips and wiggles out of his arms to kiss all the way down his torso.

“So, where should we go?” Eddie asks, then proceeds to take Richie's entire dick into his mouth.

"Uh," Richie hisses, and fists the sheets. “You, um, want to talk about this, ah, right  _now_?” 

Eddie hums, swirling his tongue around the head of Richie's dick. 

“Uh, I don’t know? Hawaii?” It's a completely random suggestion, but Richie's thoughts are occupied, to say the least. 

Eddie makes a noise Richie deciphers as no, and spit dribbles from his mouth down to the base of Richie's dick.

Richie dares to look down, watching his painfully hard dick sliding out of Eddie's mouth. “Mexico?” he grits out, biting down on his lip, and Eddie shakes his head.

"Disneyland?"

Eddie pulls off and smirks. "Fucking hate Disneyland." 

Richie laughs, giddy with pleasure. Giddy with how much he likes this man and how he lights up Richie’s soul.

"Where do  _ you _ want to go?" Eddie mouths up Richie's length. "Tell me."

"I'll go anywhere with you, Eddie." 

Eddie freezes, grinning, his eyes wide and ecstatic. "That just made me so fucking happy, you have no idea," he says, and wraps a hand around Richie's dick. "I’m gonna make you come so hard.” 

"Okay," Richie says stupidly, thrusting into Eddie's fist.

Eddie sucks two fingers into his mouth and asks, “Can I?” and Richie nods so hard he might have given himself whiplash.

The second Eddie curls his fingertips against Richie's prostate and gives his dick one long stroke, Richie lets out an embarrassing cry and comes so hard it brings a tear to his eye.

Reality only begins to set in when they’re in the shower, washing each other’s hair. This beautiful stranger with the loud energy just left his fiance for Richie. They’re running away together like secret lovers, leaning into the recklessness that’s been the undercurrent of their relationship since the very beginning. They’re leaving decorum behind and stepping into the terrifying, exhilarating unknown hand in hand.

“So, tonight?” Richie asks, his heart racing.

“Tonight.”

Richie types and erases three different text messages to his roommates before Eddie takes the phone and types one for him. 

_ ‘Hey I'm leaving town, don’t wait up for me, sorry about the rent’ _ it reads, and Richie justifies the extremely short notice by dipping into his tiny savings account to send them his portion of the rent. If karma is real, he wants it on his side. 

As he packs up as much as he can in a backpack and a single suitcase, he leaves a message for his mom. Then, as they’re leaving from the back door, Richie deletes his account on the cuddling app.

They take Eddie’s car, leaving Richie’s car to sit in the driveway. On the way to Eddie’s apartment, Eddie proudly tells Richie how he bought the 1993 Toyota Camry in 2008 and restored it himself. It has an astronomical amount of miles on it, but he claims he wouldn’t trust any other car for their ‘adventure.’

Richie waits in the car outside Eddie’s apartment building, tapping his fingers on his knees. There’s a part of him that wonders if Eddie is as scared, or if he’s second-guessing things, if he’s just going to walk out and tell Richie he has decided to stay.

Within minutes, before Richie can let his insecurities spiral, Eddie jogs down the steps of the building carrying nothing but a backpack and a shoebox. For a split second, Richie imagines Eddie’s fiance—  _ ex- _ fiance—running out after him, begging him to stay, and he grins because Eddie chose him instead. 

“Ready?” Eddie asks, slightly out of breath as he starts the car. He tosses his bag in the backseat and places the box in Richie’s lap.

“Ready. Let’s-” Richie opens the box, blinking at the stacks of bills. 20s and 100s, neatly bundled together. “Holy shit, Eddie, how much money is this?”

“Hmm,” Eddie hums, speeding down the street towards the freeway on-ramp. “I think it’s about twenty thousand?”

“That- that is  _ a lot _ of money.” Richie picks up a stack of hundred dollar bills, feeling the weight of it in his hand. “I’ve never seen this much money at once in my life.”

“Ten years worth,” Eddie says, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. When they stop at a red light, he turns to Richie and adds, “And I plan on spending all of it with you.”

They head south, towards downtown LA, and with just the flickering light of passing cars and the full moon overhead, Richie opens his journal on his lap.

_ July 25th- I know who Eddie Kaspbrak is. Besides a sign of hope and freedom and an exciting buzz. Eddie Kaspbrak is mine. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah, shit here we go.
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/curiousair), where I talk a lot about this story among other things.


	4. you ain't woman enough to take my man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title credit- you ain't woman enough, by loretta lynn
> 
> cw/tw: minor injuries, blood, tasteless jokes about murder, weird straight couples
> 
> *adds a little chaos as a treat*

They spend an hour meandering around downtown, moderately stoned, bemoaning the lack of authenticity left in certain parts of LA, then show their hypocrisy by spending fifteen dollars on giant donuts filled with toasted marshmallows and topped with chocolate. 

Though it’s pushing ten PM, the weather is mild. Sometime between browsing an egregiously overpriced ‘vintage’ shop and contemplating spending another fifteen dollars on donuts, Eddie adopts Richie’s flannel shirt to shield himself from the light breeze. Richie sees him practically swimming in it, and can’t wipe the big, goofy grin off of his face. Every time Eddie catches him looking, he smiles and adjusts the collar or fusses with the sleeves, as if he knows sharing clothes has been one of Richie’s more _wholesome_ fantasies ever since he was a lanky little gay kid. Richie thinks about this as they cross the street hand-in-in hand, with five seconds left on the crosswalk signal. A car honks at them, and Richie is still grinning when Eddie flips them off and delightedly shouts, into their open window, ‘ _hey, suck my dick buddy_.’ 

They’ve been making their way back to the lot where they parked, mindful of the ridiculous fees, but Eddie says he’s not ready for the night to end. 

“Griffith Park?” he suggests, and Richie can’t say no.

On the way through the residential neighborhood leading to the park, they get lost. 

This is when Richie finds out that Eddie never uses GPS because it always ‘sends you the wrong way’ and that even though he has lived in and around LA for twelve years, he only has a vague idea of where the park is from Sunset Blvd. 

“Okay,” he sighs, pulling over on a dark side street. “Up there is the Greek Theatre. So, we’re close, right?”

“It’s like...a straight shot there, Eddie,” Richie tells him, stifling a laugh. He takes out his phone and says for the third time: “Just let me look it up.”

“C’mon, Richie, let me be stubborn for a minute,” Eddie says through laughter, gripping the steering wheel. After approximately five seconds, he throws his hands up in defeat. “Alright, fine. Look it up. And don’t laugh at me while you do it.”

“You know,” Richie says, unlocking his phone, “it’s a miracle we have these magic rectangles that tell us where to go.”

“The real miracle is that I survived my entire life without you.” 

Richie pauses his fingers over the map and looks at him. He’s looking ahead at the road, unaware of how he just made Richie’s heart stutter in his chest. “I- we’re five minutes away.”

“I have a better idea.” Eddie points at a house on the corner, where there are cars parked outside and people milling in the small front lawn. “We’re going to that party.”

“With all the young architects, plastic surgeons, and wannabe socialites that live in his area?”

“Mmhm.” Eddie takes off his seatbelt, rolls Richie’s flannel up to his elbows, and fixes his hair in the rearview mirror, pushing it to the side.

Richie looks down at his threadbare Sonic Youth t-shirt, old jeans, and sneakers that have seen better days. “I’m underdressed.” 

“Shut up, you look hot.” Eddie gives Richie a kiss and ruffles his hair. He gets out, walks around the car and opens Richie’s door, holding out his hand like the perfect gentleman. “Let’s go.”

“I’ll stick out like a sore thumb,” Richie grumbles, accepting his warm hand.

“Because you’re so hot no one will be able to take their eyes off you?” 

“You know what I mean.” Richie rolls his eyes and allows Eddie to lead him across the street. “So, what, we’re just gonna walk in?”

“Exactly.” 

“And when they realize no one invited us?”

“‘Wrong house,’” Eddie says simply, as they walk up the brick front steps. The front door is ajar and they breeze past the people standing on the front porch to step into the dark, narrow entryway.

They walk through a group near the stairs and enter the living room. It’s a mixed crowd— a group of older men in polo shirts with their blond wives stand around the unlit fireplace, laughing and holding wine glasses, and there’s a smaller group of young, hipster-looking kids standing near the back. Richie can see straight through a pair of sliding glass doors to the backyard, where even more people gather next to a gazebo lit with string lights. Eddie leads him through the packed room, saying hello to people as if they’re old acquaintances, and they end up in the huge, open kitchen with a large island in the center. There are more people around their age here, talking and laughing loudly over a repetitive dubstep song. 

Eddie urges Richie down into the single seat left at the edge of the island, slots himself between Richie’s legs, and proceeds to help himself to one of the charcuterie platters and champagne from a tray sitting near an over-the-top floral centerpiece. He gives Richie a glass and leans into him, bringing a hand to rest on his shoulder. Richie sips the room temperature champagne and they look at each other, trading mischievous grins. 

“You’re so cute,” Eddie says, and adjusts Richie’s glasses on his nose. “Thank you for going along with my crazy ass ideas...and for being here with me.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.” Richie blushes and Eddie gives him a quick kiss, then picks up a grape from the platter. Richie glances around the room, accidentally catching the eye of a red-headed woman across the island. He averts his eyes and wonders out loud, “I wonder what this party is for.”

“You know rich people just do this shit for any reason.” Eddie shrugs and downs a flute of champagne in one go, smacking his lips. He sets the glass down, picks up a green olive with a toothpick, delicately wraps it in a slice of unidentifiable cured meat, and holds it in front of Richie’s face. “Try this.”

Richie opens his mouth and Eddie feeds him, pressing his thumb to Richie’s lip in the process. Tender, private, just for him. Eddie kisses him then, right there in the middle of a stranger’s kitchen. For a minute, it’s just them, surrounded in each other, enveloped in the thrilling newness of their relationship. Earlier, when Eddie had first used the word _relationship_ , Richie swooned and zoned out for a full ten minutes as Eddie made wildly spontaneous plans for them to embark on a cross country road trip. 

_Relationship_. It’s been a long time since Richie has used that word to describe any short-lived interactions he has had with men. Before Eddie, he was beginning to accept that he’d never get the chance again.

“The music sucks,” Eddie says now, looking around for the source of it. “I might have to fix that.”

“I’m requesting The Breeders.” Richie follows his gaze, once again catching the eye of the same red-headed woman from earlier. He turns back to Eddie. “You like The Breeders right?”

Eddie gently scratches his nails at the nape of Richie’s neck, tickling him. “If I say no, will you be mad?”

“I’d pretend not to be,” Richie answers honestly, and reaches for a grape from the neat pile. For the third time, Richie spots the woman across the island looking at him. There’s a tall man at her side, also looking Richie’s way. They seem to realize that he has noticed them, and replace their unsettling blank stares with equally unsettling smiles. Richie sends them a polite smile in return, raises his glass in an imaginary toast, and spins in his seat.

Eddie looks over Richie’s shoulder at them, frowning. “Do you know them?”

“No, but she keeps looking over here.” Richie shudders, trying to shake off the strange feeling of being watched. “Weird.”

"Well, Miss Staring Problem is coming over with what looks like her personal bodyguard,” Eddie mutters.

“Shit,” Richie mumbles, getting to his feet. He takes Eddie’s hand, eying the exit. If they’re quick, they can get out relatively unnoticed by the rest of the party.

The couple appears in front of them, essentially blocking them from leaving. The man is built like a linebacker, tall and broad, and stands a step behind the woman with his hand in her back pocket. 

The woman wears a dangerously low-cut blouse and smells of flowery perfume. She smiles, wide and toothy. “I’m Bev. This is my husband, Ben.” 

Ben holds out his hand and Richie accepts it, garnering an open and friendly energy from him.

Bev looks Richie up and down in a way that makes him feel naked, and presents her hand like a princess would. Richie blinks and takes it, unsure if he's meant to shake it or kiss it. After an awkward half shake, he glances at Eddie, who looks just as confused as Richie feels, and clears his throat. 

“Uh, I’m Richie. This is Eddie.”

“Your boyfriend?” Bev asks, flitting her light blue eyes between them.

Eddie sticks out his hand, breaking the tension. “Yes, hi, nice to meet you. I’m Eddie, Richie’s boyfriend.”

 _Boyfriend_ , Richie thinks. It would play in his head on a loop if it weren’t for the conversation happening around him.

“See, this is why I love LA.” Bev slaps Ben’s shoulder and looks at them like an anomaly. “Everyone is so _open_ here. Ben and I are from North Dakota, and everyone is straight.” 

“Everyone _says_ they’re straight,” Eddie quips, and Richie chuckles, still half-dazed about Eddie using the b-word. 

_Boyfriend._ It’s juvenile and Richie doesn’t care. There’s no reason to deny himself the pleasure of fulfilling such a deep-seated desire, just to seem more mature. It’s something he’s always wanted, someone to claim him without being asked first.

Bev laughs, bringing a pale hand to her mouth to stifle it. “You’re so funny. How did you two meet? Was it here in town?”

Instinctually, Richie looks to Eddie, but Eddie has already started speaking.

“Funnily enough,” he’s saying, “Richie and I met on an app-”

“Well, we actually met once before then,” Richie cuts in. “He helped fix my car.”

“And _coincidentally_ , I found him on an app a few days later,” Eddie beams at Richie the way someone would look at a full moon. “The rest was history.”

“Actually,” Richie pipes in, and it's almost painful how annoying he sounds, “it was an app for my job. It wasn’t, like, a dating app. No offensive to people who use those, it just- it wasn’t that-”

Eddie puts a gentle hand on Richie’s back and Richie shuts his damn mouth. Without so much as a single word, Eddie reminds Richie that they are, in fact, crashing a party and there's no reason for them to tell the real, unabridged story of how their relationship started. Still, lying has never come easy to Richie— he’s honest to a fault, to the point of it being on the verge of word vomit. Even omitting the truth makes him squirm like he has a secret.

“What kind of work do you do?” Bev steps in closer, so that her thigh almost touches Richie's knee.

“It’s um-” Again, Richie finds himself looking at Eddie for an answer. This time, Eddie is looking right back at him, expectantly. “Have you heard of ‘professional cuddling?’”

“Oh my god.” Bev’s jaw drops and she puts both hands over her heart. “Is that how you met? That is so sweet!”

“Thanks.” Eddie drapes an arm around Richie’s shoulders, squeezing him a bit. “I think it’s pretty sweet too.”

“How long have you been together?” Bev asks. “It seems like you’ve known each other forever.” 

If Richie were to answer honestly, he’d tell her that they’ve only been together for a few hours. Somehow it feels longer, not even counting the weeks of mutual pining and dancing around how much they wanted each other. Just this night, driving around, smoking, kissing, and smiling at each other has felt like days, weeks, or even months. It warms Richie from the inside out to think that just by looking at them, other people have felt the same.

“It hasn’t been that long,” Richie starts. 

“Just a few months,” Eddie finishes, conveniently leaving out that he’d only left his fiance tonight.

“It’s a new relationship,” Richie says, leaving out that by ‘new’ he means they first time they kissed and had sex was about three hours ago. 

“But, we’re really happy,” Eddie adds, and that's the truth. They're deliriously happy, the kind of happy that makes your face ache and your skin hot.

“And you finish each other’s sentences! Oh geez, that’s cute!” Bev turns to Richie, her smile growing even wider. “Tell me more about your job? It sounds exciting.” 

Richie gives the typical spiel about his job and Bev listens with sustained interest, barely interrupting him with any of the redundant questions that people usually have. She just nods and smiles until Richie is finished speaking, watching him with her piercing eyes. Then she turns to Ben, the 6-foot-something man whom Richie had somehow forgotten was standing there behind his wife, and asks him to fetch them more drinks. “Something harder than champagne, maybe?” she requests, as he walks away.

“Is this your house?” Richie asks, and immediately wants to kick himself. 

Eddie chuckles and adds, graciously, “Sorry, we got invited by a friend of a friend.” 

“Oh, no, but god we wish. This is such a nice place. We live down the hill.” 

“I prefer our house, actually,” Ben says as he returns with an entire tray of champagne. “Sorry, couldn’t find anything else. I think they’re holding out on us.”

Bev hands out the drinks, shoving them into Eddie and Richie's hands, as Ben announces:

“How about a game of never have I ever?” 

“Are you trying to get me drunk, mister?" Bev gives Ben a playful slap on his giant bicep. "You know I’ve done just about everything.” 

"Who wants to go first?" Ben asks.

Their eyes land on Richie, and he balks a little at them. He hasn't played this game in years, since the last time he had a group of friends and a reason for social drinking. The game exists solely to either figure out where on the kink spectrum their friends fall or to gather blackmail material. In other words, it's always been mildly uncomfortable for someone as private as Richie.

Richie looks at Eddie—for help, he realizes—and Eddie has an amused smile playing on his lips. 

“Uh. Never have I ever... ” Richie tries to think of something appropriately outrageous, because that’s how this game works. “Never have I ever gotten arrested.” 

Bev giggles, and takes an enthusiastic drink. 

Then, a second later, before Richie can look to him for a poorly concealed laugh or a moment of shared discomfort, Eddie takes a drink too. _Oh_. 

By nature, Richie isn't a judgmental person. Everyone he meets has a story to tell, an entire life full of experiences that inform who they are. He can't judge Eddie, but this only adds to the growing list of things Richie never would have thought to ask about. Richie supposes that's his fault— the deep, all-encompassing feeling of _this is where I'm supposed to be_ doesn't always mean you know someone. Eddie is still an enigma, no matter how amazing it feels when they’re wrapped around each other.

“She’s a wild one,” Ben explains, with a forced laugh.

“You tamed me,” Bev purrs, and Richie has to grit his teeth to keep from outwardly cringing.

“Never have I ever had a threesome," Ben goes on, looking pointedly at Bev.

Bev drinks, wiggling her eyebrows. “I _was_ a wild one!” 

Eddie clears his throat and takes a small sip from his drink. Richie nudges him, giving him a questioning look. Eddie shrugs and swirls his glass. ' _What the fuck?'_ Richie wants to say. He swallows the queasy feeling and shelves it for later, forcing himself to tune in to what Eddie is saying.

“Never have I ever had sex in public.” 

Both Bev and Ben tip their glasses back and finish off their champagne, immediately reaching for another. Richie shifts in his seat, still trying to process the last sixty seconds. Bev looks at Ben and then at Richie and says, “Never have I ever slept with someone else’s partner.” 

Ben takes a drink, locking eyes with Richie. It could be his guilt that makes it seem like they're looking right through him, perusing the library of his innermost thoughts and fears, until they've landed on the one that reads: ' _I am a homewrecker._ '

Reluctantly, Richie takes a drink and they move on swiftly, not asking any questions or waiting for an explanation. Despite this, Richie sits there gritting his teeth the entire time. At least this batch of champagne is cold. 

They finish the game, which basically only serves to show Eddie, and two strangers, how vanilla Richie is. To be honest, he's surprised too— comparatively speaking, he had never thought he was _that_ inexperienced. On the other hand, Bev and Eddie seem to be kindred spirits, laughing over the fact that they've experienced nearly everything under the sun. Including streaking, copious underage drinking, and being fired.

“What are you two getting up to tonight?” Ben asks, once their conversation lulls. “We could take the party somewhere else?”

“We were actually going to head out.” Richie takes Eddie’s hand and stands up, twisting his lips into a smile. “It was nice meeting you two, though.”

Ben blocks their path with his excessively large body. “We were headed out too, why don’t you come with?” 

“Actually, um, we were headed out of town,” Richie explains. “We’re getting a hotel.”

Bev speaks up now, stepping in front of her husband. “You can stay with us! We have a guest bedroom. _Much_ nicer than a hotel.”

Richie looks at Eddie and squeezes his hand, attempting to telepathically communicate that he would much rather them have some time alone. Unfortunately, Eddie does not sense this. 

Instead he shrugs and says, “Sure, why not?”

* * *

Ben and Bev’s house is gorgeous, all ash wood floors and high ceilings, a cool-toned color scheme that gives the space a monochromatic look, and not a speck of dust in sight. They’re in the den, on the most comfortable couches Richie has ever sat on, playing a complicated board game that no one seems to understand thoroughly enough for it to be fun.

Richie is uncomfortably buzzed, having succumbed to adult peer pressure and accepted the whiskey sours Ben made at a literal bar across from the fireplace. Bev put on a Portishead record when they walked in, and the smooth trip-hop beats fill the silence between them.

“Wait, do I roll now or pick a card first?” Eddie questions, leaning over the coffee table. He’s at Richie’s side, his constant spark of energy the only thing keeping Richie from buckling under the odd, draining tension in the room. 

Ben is at Richie’s other side, and has been boring a hole into the side of Richie’s head with his soft brown eyes for about 45 minutes now. There’s a particularly confusing moment when he claps a hand on Richie’s back to congratulate his accidental adeptness at the board game, the force of the gesture nearly shoving him off the couch.

They pause the game for Eddie to use the restroom and when he gets up, Bev takes his spot, fiddling with the deck of cards on the table. Ben reaches over Richie’s lap to caress Bev’s thigh and Richie shifts in his seat, effectively sandwiched between the two of them. He’s thinking of an excuse to leave when Bev returns Ben’s caress, reaching over Richie’s thigh to do so, and the gears in his head start going into overdrive, trying to figure out what the hell is going on. It all feels like a drunken fever dream that he can’t wake up from.

When Eddie comes back, he takes in the scene with a puzzled frown. “Huh,” he breathes, and sits in the recliner across from the coffee table. Ben and Bev continue the game, squeezing in unnecessarily close as they roll dice and trade cards.

Richie looks to Eddie, ready to silently plead for help, but Eddie is looking at his phone. Richie wiggles his phone out of his pocket just as it starts to vibrate.

 **Eddie ❤️** : _What the fuck?_

Richie gives him the most subtle _what the fuck_ look in return, a quick raise of his eyebrows and a panicked glance at Ben and Bev. Eddie nods, clears his throat, and abruptly announces that they’d like to go to bed. Richie stands up, tripping over his feet to remove himself from the small space between the couch and the coffee table.

In what is possibly the strangest twist in events, Ben stands up and puts a firm hand on Richie’s shoulder. He’s swaying a bit, the bitter scent of alcohol coming off of him. Richie freezes, and once again thinks _what the absolute fuck is going on,_ because he’s exhausted, a little drunk, and honestly half brain dead from trying to decipher why it feels like they’re about to be murdered and skinned.

As if the vice grip on Richie's shoulder wasn’t strange enough, Ben accompanies it with: “Why don’t you come to bed with Bev and I? Cuddling is always better with more than two people, don’t you think?”

_What the fuck? What the-_

“You know, uh...probably not a good idea,” Richie answers, sounding far more unsure than he’d like. “We’ve all been drinking and...you know, clear, informed consent is important, even if it’s just-”

“We’d like to see the guest room.” Eddie appears at Richie’s side and grabs his elbow, pulling him a step back. “Please.”

Ben nods and releases Richie, seeming to understand, then motions for them to follow him. He leads them down a dark hallway and shows them the guest bedroom and its ensuite bathroom.

"Good night," he tells them, and leaves without another word. With his exit, the tension dissipates like a deflated balloon. 

The room is neat, set up exactly how a hotel room would be, except with a cleaner floor and presumably cleaner sheets.

Eddie shuts the door, toes off his shoes, and throws himself onto the big bed, reaching out a hand at the last second to pull Richie down with him. Richie kicks off his shoes and takes his glasses off, safely placing them on the bedside table. By the time Richie settles into a comfortable position, lying with one leg flung over Eddie's thighs and one arm over his chest, Eddie’s eyes are closed. 

Richie sighs, his lips to Eddie's shoulder. The soft material of the flannel tickles his nose, and he thinks about taking it off, trailing kisses up Eddie’s bicep and in the dip of his collarbones. “Tonight has been interesting.” 

Eddie hums, his eyes still closed. “It’s our first night together as a couple." 

Elation swells in Richie’s chest for three reasons. First, simply being this close to Eddie strikes something in him every time. Then, there’s the word _‘couple,’_ which Richie is positive he’ll never get sick of hearing. And, this is their first night together. They no longer have to fit all of their stolen glances and touches into an hour, no boundaries left or rules to abide by. Richie can take his time, undressing Eddie, kissing every inch of his beautiful, compact body. Maybe he can leave Richie’s flannel shirt on and nothing else, unbuttoned to reveal his bare, tanned skin, the flat plane of his belly, his hard-

“You know, it’s not how I imagined our first night.” 

“How did you imagine it?” Eddie asks, his voice already groggy with impending sleep.

Scented candles, kissing for hours, lying naked together for the sake of it. “More romantic. Less...weird and crazy.” 

Eddie's dimples appear in his cheeks, the lines at the corner of his eyes following soon after. “I like a little bit of weird and crazy sometimes.” 

“God, they’re so weird. I can’t tell if they want to have sex with us or murder us.” Richie huffs out a tired laugh. “Or, I’m just drunker than I thought.” 

“We’ll leave in the morning.” Eddie yawns and opens his eyes, rolling over onto his side with Richie's long limbs still covering him. His smile wraps around the next word, fitting between the elongated syllables. “ _Boyfriend_.” 

“You did call me that.” 

Their voices are low, too used to their close proximity, too used to whispering as if they're hiding something. Richie likes the intimacy of it, how it intensifies 

“Do you like it?” Eddie is tentative, searching Richie’s expression.

“If I told you how much, you’d think I was crazy.” 

Eddie relaxes, brushing his fingers through Richie's unruly hair. “I like you.” 

“I like you too," Richie says against his lips.

They lie there and breathe each other for a minute, in their comfortable silence, until Eddie presses his face flush with Richie's chest.

With his voice half muffled, Eddie asks: "Do you think Ben is hot?" 

Richie shrugs, smoothing a hand over Eddie’s back. "He's attractive, in a standard white American male way." 

Still muffled, Eddie questions: "Do you think he's hotter than me?" 

" _No_. Eddie, what-" Richie tilts Eddie's head up. Eddie just blinks back at him, something timid about his expression. "Where is this coming from?" 

"It’s not-" Eddie mutters, with a terse chuckle. "I'm not a jealous person, I promise." 

"Could have fooled me,” Richie teases. “I literally forgot the man was there at the party earlier, that’s how little I noticed him.” It’s equal parts dizzying and delightful how that happens, how easily Eddie becomes the center of his universe even in the middle of a crowded room.

“Okay, okay.” Eddie rolls his eyes. “I have a history.” 

“I know. I get it.” 

“Anyway, I saw him eyeing you." Eddie cups Richie's jaw, always a welcome gesture. "Trying to steal you away from me."

“Well, I’m not _eyeing_ him so you can relax, _boyfriend_.” Richie grins, watching Eddie’s faux scowl falter. “You can't _steal_ someone who doesn’t want to be stolen. I like being with you.” 

“I like being with you too,” Eddie says, and rolls out from under Richie’s heavy leg. "And, you're right...I wanted to be stolen. You didn't even have to try." 

The pang of guilt hits Richie so hard that he physically reacts, flinching back from Eddie's hands. Eddie’s grin softens and he returns with a soothing kiss. “Let’s go to bed?” 

They get undressed, and seeing Eddie in his tight black boxer briefs before they turn off the light is enough to snap Richie out of an obsessive inner monologue about infidelity. 

“Did I tell you,” Eddie mumbles though a yawn, when his back is to Richie’s chest, “that this is my favorite place to be?”

Richie closes his eyes and places a hand flat to Eddie’s heart. “Mine too.” 

* * *

Eddie is a morning person, Richie learns. He gives Richie warm, closed-mouthed kisses to his hairline, temples, and cheeks and Richie stirs, happy to just lie there and enjoy it.

Eventually, when Richie is sufficiently awake--which isn’t very awake at all--he pries his eyes open. It’s bright in the room, curtains open to let in the sun, and Eddie is sitting up, smiling fondly at him. “What time is it?” 

“Almost 9,” Eddie says, and Richie promptly closes his eyes again. “I’ve been up for a little while. Bev knocked on the door to tell me that Ben made breakfast. I genuinely think he’s a house husband.” 

“It’s early,” Richie grumbles. He flings an arm out blindly, grasping for part of Eddie he can grab. He ends up with his elbow, sliding down to take his hand. “Come back to bed.” 

“I’m in bed.” 

“No, I mean _here_ ,” Richie says, bringing Eddie’s hand to his chest. It’s amazing how even without seeing him, Richie knows he’s smiling, he can feel it in the way Eddie folds into his side, pressing a cheek to his bare chest.

Waking up is usually a grueling process for Richie, sitting up in bed half asleep for at least thirty minutes before lifting his body out of bed like a bag of cement. It’s easier with Eddie here, but it stretches out longer, since they can’t keep their hands from roaming, can’t stop from kissing and nuzzling into the sleep-warmed sheets. 

“I’m hungry,” Eddie says, and it’s insistent, meaning ‘ _get up_.’

“Alright,” Richie mutters and jumps out of bed before he can talk himself out of it. He shuffles to the restroom. Eddie follows him, keeping a hand on his back as he brushes his teeth. When he finally wipes the sleep from his eyes and his vision focuses, he notices their reflection in the large mirror. He stops, transfixed by the way they look together. Eddie is in Richie’s Sonic Youth shirt, his hair messily swooped to the side, smiling softly at Richie in the mirror. Richie is shirtless, paused with his toothbrush in his mouth, his hair wild, his glasses forgotten on the nightstand. They look good together, Richie thinks. Richie loves their height difference, loves how much he has to hunch over to catch Eddie’s lips in a kiss, loves how well they fit together. 

“Good morning.” He grins at Eddie in the reflection, and spits into the sink. “How did you sleep?” 

“With you basically on top of me the whole night. So, really well.” 

Richie turns the water on and splashes some on his face. His facial hair is beginning to reach the annoying prickly stage and he realizes he forgot to pack his razor. “Are we staying for breakfast?” 

“I’m hungry,” Eddie says again and that settles it.

Richie gets dressed and sits on the bed, half watching Eddie pace the room in his boxers, half scribbling in his journal.

 _July 26th-_ _I like sleeping with Eddie. I like waking up with Eddie. We fit. There’s a lot I don’t know about him, but I know those two things._ _ ~~Maybe that’s enough?~~ _

* * *

The kitchen is big and white with marble countertops. There’s a nook in the corner with a table tucked into it, a bench under the window on one side, and two chairs on the other side. Ben is at the table, looking like a giant in the small space. In front of him is an impressive breakfast spread, fruit, eggs, pancakes, bacon, and what looks like a potato hash in a cast iron skillet. 

“Good morning! You two look well rested,” Bev says from the refrigerator. “Mimosas?”

“Absolutely,” Eddie separates from Richie’s side and assists Bev with opening a bottle of champagne. Just the sight of champagne makes Richie sick now, so he turns to the table, eyeing the food.

“Help yourself,” Ben says, as polite as ever, and passes a plate. There’s not much room on the table, but Richie manages to carefully slide the cartoonish stack of pancakes over to make space. Once Eddie and Bev join, the weirdness from last night comes back in full force. Now that he’s sober, he’s positive he hadn’t imagined it.

Bev folds her arms on the table. “So, how long have you been doing the cuddling work?”

“Over a year now,” Richie answers, averting his eyes from Bev and Ben’s stares. Sitting across from them has the unnatural friendliness of a job interview with the added intensity of a police interrogation. 

Ben lifts a mug to his lips and asks, in what is likely meant to be a casual tone: “Does it ever get more intimate than what’s advertised?”

It’s asked often enough that Richie isn’t bothered by it anymore. He usually shrugs it off and moves on. This may or may not be a thinly veiled attempt to get him into bed though, which makes the question a touch more inappropriate. 

“No,” Richie answers, not needing to read between the lines. He forces a laugh, just to keep things light. “That would be a different service now, wouldn’t it?”

“Oh,” Bev says. “Had you and Eddie not-”

“No,” Eddie chuckles, but there’s a bite to his voice. “We did not. Richie is a professional.” 

Bev bristles slightly, and changes the subject, launching abruptly into a story about _her_ job. She’s an interior designer to the stars, though she says her most famous client was an aging rock star she doesn’t even remember the name of. Ben stays quiet during the conversation, sipping his coffee and occasionally gazing over the table at Richie. 

Breakfast begins to wind down and restlessness grows under Richie's skin. He and Eddie haven’t specifically discussed where they want to go next, but the possibilities have been running through his head since they left. They could go anywhere, and Richie _would_ go anywhere with Eddie. He realizes that more and more as the minutes tick by, how much he really means that. 

Ben begins to clear the table and Bev excuses herself to another part of the house, leaving Eddie and Richie sitting awkwardly at the table. Eddie has had two mimosas, and says under his breath, “If I hadn’t helped make these, we would be drugged and tied up somewhere probably.” When Richie nudges him under the table, he adds: “Do you get more of an Ed Gein or Jeffery Dahmer vibe from him? I can’t decide,” and Richie barks out a laugh that sends him into a coughing fit.

“So, um.” Ben clears his throat and stops at the sink, turning to face them. “I realize now that it was rude of me to ask for your services without offering to pay-” 

Richie presses his lips together in a tight line to cut off the laughter still bubbling up inside him. 

“I was hoping I could amend that by offering you 500 dollars for 30 minutes. You, Bev, and I?”

Richie gapes at Ben across the kitchen, no longer laughing. “500 dollars? That’s-” It’s literally ten times what he would charge for such a short session.

“A thousand?” Ben offers, and there’s urgency in his tone and in his eyes.

It must take a second too long for Richie to answer, because Ben says, “I’ll let you two discuss it,” and leaves the kitchen. 

“Okay, so,” Richie says, turning to Eddie. “They are definitely trying to have sex with us. You can see that, right?” 

“Definitely. Or they’re trying to kill us, eat us, and harvest our skin to make leather bags.” 

“I know they’re intense, but...” 

“But?”

“I-” Richie takes a deep breath. He doesn’t get any overtly _bad_ energy from Ben, just strange and exceedingly awkward. He may be a little _too_ friendly, but he’s friendly nonetheless. Richie figures if he truly wanted to have his way with them— whether that includes sex or cold-blooded murder— he has had plenty of opportunities to do it before now. “I might do it- not the sex, obviously. The cuddling.” 

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?” 

“They must really need it if they’re offering a thousand dollars to _cuddle_. And,” Richie lowers his voice, “he looked pretty sad, Eddie.”

To which Eddie replies: “No, the thousand dollars is in hopes we’ll get our dicks out, Richie.”

“What, they’re just hoping that cuddling will just organically turn into sex?” 

“It happened with us,” Eddie says, very seriously. 

Richie rolls his eyes, but can’t help grinning. “That’s _different_. We have a connection, you know that.” 

Eddie grins too, bumping their knees together. “I know, I’m just fucking with you. If you do it, I’ll come with you. It could be a laugh. Or, we could be murdered.” 

Ben returns to the kitchen with Bev right as Eddie finishes speaking, as if they were waiting around the corner listening in. The idea doesn’t surprise Richie— after the events of the last 24 hours, he’s desensitized. 

“So, did you-?” Ben motions between Richie and Eddie. “Do you need more time?”

“No, it’s- uh-” Richie looks at Eddie. How does he phrase this without offending them? _‘Sure, we can cuddle but no, we would not like to have sex with you if that is, in fact, your ulterior motive?’_

“Yes. The answer is yes,” Eddie cuts in. “If I can come too.”

Bev claps her hands, overjoyed. “Of course! The more, the merrier!”

“When would you-”

Richie doesn’t even get the full question out before Bev is speaking again.

“No time like the present!”

Their bedroom design is straight out of an HGTV magazine. Lush carpets, a green accent wall, and minimalist floor lamps Then there’s the bed, huge and piled with a mountain of pillows. No one needs a bed this big, even if you’re sharing with Ben who is again, built like a brick shithouse. It dawns on Richie, as he and his boyfriend crawl onto the bed, that this California King is far more than an aesthetic or comfort purchase. This gigantic, plush bed with a metal headboard and a post at each corner is for _practical and functional reasons_. The more the merrier, Bev had said and it likely isn't the first time she's used the phrase while crawling across a bed.

Bev and Ben settle on one side, with Ben at the very edge. Richie moves in next to Bev, and finally, Eddie slots himself behind Richie. 

As odd as the situation is, Richie can appreciate how it feels to have Eddie’s deceptively strong arm around his waist. Being with Eddie always makes Richie feel like there’s an electric current running through him, but something new sparks when Eddie’s nose barely brushes the sensitive skin at the back of his neck. It’s a tingle that transforms into a heavy warmth, settling over him, encapsulating him.

When Richie begins to clue in to the full scene, his mind's eye pulling away from where it's been steadily focusing on Eddie, he suddenly remembers where he is and it starts to set in that this is one of the most absurd fucking things he's done. Last month, he complained that his life was uninteresting, now he’s _here._ Some fantastic mix of intuition, generosity, and spontaneity led him here, spurred on by a powerful force named Eddie Kaspbrak.

Richie is sure that they’ve only been lying here for a few minutes, but it might as well have been an hour. Every time Richie shifts to adjust his position, he makes accidental eye contact with Ben over Bev’s chest. Bev has her eyes closed, looking particularly contended to be squished between two 6 foot tall men, one of whom is a gay stranger. She guides Richie's hand to her belly and when he obliges, releasing the weight, she gasps and Ben makes a noise, something between a grunt and a moan, which Richie refuses to examine any more than that. Richie flinches away like he's been burned and behind him, Eddie chokes on laughter and whispers, " _What the shit? What the-_ " Richie reaches a hand back and cups his thigh, quieting him. 

"Sorry," Bev says. "Can I hold your hand?"

“Sure, yeah.” Richie takes her hand and holds it limply at her side. They all lie very still after that, as if they're posing for a painting.

Not far into the half hour— or it could be the end, Richie can't tell because time doesn't quite feel real at the moment— Ben sits up. 

“I have a proposition. Hear me out," Ben says, and Richie braces himself. Any time someone says 'hear me out,' it's some farfetched, out of pocket idea. "Bev and I have been looking to try new things in our relationship and we were hoping you could help us out." 

Richie darts his eyes between the two of them, noticing that Eddie's grip has tightened on his hip. "Uh, by doing…?" 

"By making love to my wife while I watch." 

This throws Richie for a loop, to say the least. Behind him, Eddie says something along the lines of ‘holy shit.’ Richie’s eyes widen and he blinks a few times, as if that could help him rearrange Ben’s words in his head to mean something different. Ben had been extremely clear though, there's nothing here to misconstrue, and now he’s waiting patiently for an answer. Richie had been expecting to be propositioned, but never would he have come up with _this._ First off, he's never had sex with a woman and has never wanted to, certainly not while her husband watches and does god knows what. Distantly, he wonders what vibe he gave off that made them think that he would be into this. Again, he isn't a judgmental person. Exploring kinks with two— or more, apparently—consenting people is perfectly normal, but-

“I am...uh, actually not comfortable with being a part of that scenario.”

“It’s okay," Ben says, easy and friendly as ever. "We’re open-minded.” 

“Well… I am too. But, I’m also gay and I have a boyfriend." Richie feels like he has to explain, even though no is a complete sentence, even though- “I thought you knew that?” 

Eddie props himself up on one elbow and raises his hand tentatively. "Yeah, um, that’s me...I’m the boyfriend.” 

“Ah, exactly…” Ben motions to Richie, as if that will help Richie understand. “That’s the reason we chose you.” 

Bev sits up too, giving Richie a look that’s almost fond. “We also think you’re super sweet.”

Richie is truly bewildered, his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish. If last night was a fever dream, this is an acid trip. “Uh, thanks but, excuse me?” 

"You and I could work out something," Ben continues, oblivious to Richie's confusion. "An exchange? I..with you...and you with my wife?" 

Eddie speaks up again, sitting up completely. “Hi, hello, boyfriend here.” 

"Excuse me?" Richie repeats. He can't even _begin_ to think about the complexities of a sexual transaction such as the one Ben is proposing because he's still stuck on the whole 'We chose you because you're gay' thing.

With an unsure tilt of her head and an excited glint in her eye, Bev suggests, "Eddie can join too?"

“Thanks for the pity invite,” Eddie grumbles, sounding truly offended. 

The way he’s been shifting away from them should be a clear indication that he isn’t interested. But, just in case, Richie says for the third time: " _Excuse me_?" 

“It’s fine, it’s okay. We understand it isn't for everyone," Ben says, and there's not an ounce of anger in his voice. Slight disappointment, Richie hears, but nothing more. He slides off the bed and takes his phone from the bedside table. "What's your Venmo information?”

"Uh, what?"

"Or do you prefer Paypal? Cash App?" Ben asks, then looks at Bev, frowning. "Am I missing one?"

"I don't think so," Bev answers, then turns to Richie. "Do you have a preference?"

"For?" Richie asks.

"To pay you," Ben says simply.

Eddie wraps a hand around Richie’s elbow and it seems to wake him up a bit. “Right, yeah, you still want to pay me,” Richie says, nodding. “Let me just- I’ll go get my phone.”

Once Richie and Eddie are back in the guest room with the door shut, Eddie plops down onto the bed and says, “Well, that was fucking strange.”

Richie stands by the door, still stunned by the entire interaction. "Oh my god?" 

"So, they dont want to fuck us,” Eddie says, crossing his arms. “Just you, apparently." 

Richie pauses. “Do you _want_ to have sex with these people?” 

“Of course not, but is it fucked up that I’m offended about not being asked first? Like, am I not capable of being the hot queer dude in their cuckold fantasy?” Eddie uncrosses his arms and makes a few aggressive hand gestures at the door. “They didn’t even _ask_ me.” 

Richie sees the ridiculous pout on Eddie’s face and has to laugh. “I’m not answering that.” 

“It’s rhetorical. I know my priorities are fucked up,” Eddie deadpans, and urges Richie to sit next to him. Richie does and Eddie immediately leans into him, eager to share his familiar buzz. “All kinky sex things aside, Ben is nice. Socially inept, but nice. And I like Bev, but did you notice she has, like, a serial killer grin? Super perfect and charming. Too many teeth.” 

There’s a knock at the door, and Richie reluctantly pulls away from Eddie’s side to answer it. Bev and Ben stand there with the most pathetic looking, apologetic expressions Richie has ever seen on two adults. 

“We really like you two,” Ben seems to blurt out, and Bev clutches his arm, digging her nails in.

“He means to say that you’re both welcome to join us tonight for a beer tasting,” she says. “The other couple we were supposed to go with changed their mind at the last minute and we reserved spots for four.”

“I-” Richie looks at their eyes, at the desperation in Ben’s and the hope in Bev’s. And, he believes them. He almost feels _bad_ for them. “Yeah, we’ll go with you.”

Bev claps her hands, more overjoyed about this than the prospect of getting into bed with him. “Great! In the meantime, Ben is going out to pick up lunch. How do you feel about Greek food?”

Eddie calls out from the bed: “Sounds good!” 

Richie shuts the door and returns to the bed, splaying out onto his back. “I’m starting to think they just need friends.” 

“Hmm, maybe so.” Eddie lies next to him, brushes his thumbs along Richie’s rough jaw. “You are too sweet, you know that?” 

“One more night,” Richie assures him. “Then it’s just you and me.”

* * *

The beer tasting goes about as well as Richie thought it would go. Most beer tastes the same to him and Eddie agrees, but it was nice to get out, even in the terribly gentrified Silver Lake. Everything else aside, being out in public with another couple and sitting at their table in the dimly lit brewery unearthed some of his forgotten desires for normalcy in this sense. Having a boyfriend, having friends, going on double dates. Bev and Ben don’t suddenly become less awkward, but as they talk more, Richie begins to see them through a new lens. They aren’t exactly predators, they’re just an odd Midwestern couple plopped in LA with no idea how to navigate friendships or sexual desires that are evidently new. 

Eddie cracks jokes the entire night, and continues when they get back to the house, giggling when he manages to get lost in the dark hallways. 

“I’m not even drunk,” he promises. “I hate beer. It’s useless.”

“Your sense of direction is just that bad,” Richie tells him, as he reroutes them to the guest room. “I hate beer too.”

“There’s a door down there with like three locks,” Eddie points out, stepping into the room. “Ominous.” 

Richie kicks off his shoes, rolling his eyes at the sinister edge in Eddie’s tone. “Probably storage or something.”

“Or, it’s where they keep the bodies.” 

They get undressed and tumble into bed, looking forward to the quiet time alone in the semi-dark. They haven’t tired of touching each other-- running a hand down the expanse of Eddie’s back, over the curve of his ass is as thrilling as the first time and Eddie carding his fingers through Richie’s chest hair still makes him weak. Bathed in the moonlight streaming in from the parted curtains Eddie looks like an angel. His sleepy eyes focused on Richie's, the deep dimples in his cheeks, the hypnotizing half smile on his lips.

He rolls onto his back and hauls one of Richie’s heavy legs up to lie across his lap. “I like the weight,” he explains, tapping his fingertips along Richie’s leg. He lightly taps the inside of Richie’s knee, barely dragging his nails, and Richie attempts to jerk his leg away at the too soft sensation. Eddie chuckles and holds him still, stroking both hands over Richie’s calf and the back of his thigh. Richie shivers, his hips canting instinctively. Smirking, Eddie kneads his fingers into the flesh, teasing up and down the inside of Richie’s thigh. Finally, when Richie’s breath is audible in the quiet room, Eddie slips a hand under the hem of his boxers to flat his palm against Richie’s dick. Richie hisses from the pressure alone, lying still and waiting for Eddie to give him more.

“Before we got together,” Eddie says, making a loose fist around the base of Richie’s dick, “did you ever touch yourself to the thought of me?”

Almost every day. In the shower, frantic and rushed. Before bed, imagining Eddie next to him. In the morning, out of pure necessity with thoughts of Eddie floating in his mind. In the car right after they saw each other, bringing himself right to the edge before- “Yes.” 

“I thought about you too, all the time.” Eddie tightens his grip and stops there, smiling when Richie throbs in his hand. “Sometimes it wasn’t even sex, it was just your hands on me, caressing me, grabbing me, holding me down. I would have done anything, given anything-” 

Richie closes his eyes, feeling the hard length of Eddie's cock pressing against his thigh. “Oh, god, Eddie-” 

“Before I met you, I didn’t have any real sexual fantasies. But, now that I’m with you…” Eddie begins to move his hand, at a painfully slow pace. “I want to do everything with you.” 

“Like, ah, _shit-_ ” Richie gasps when Eddie palms the head of Richie’s dick, spreading pre-cum down the throbbing shaft. “Like...threesomes?” It's been in the back of his mind since he found out about it; now is as good time as any to ask. 

Eddie stops, but keeps his hand in place, squeezing gently. “Does it bother you that I’ve done that before?” 

Richie opens his eyes, reeling in his arousal for the time being. “It’s not- it’s not because I’m a prude. I just- I wanna know if it’s a _thing_ for you.” 

“It isn’t. Do you want it to be a thing?” 

Heat floods Richie’s skin, prickling at his cheeks and his ears. “I mean- the option hadn’t really crossed my mind until right now.” 

“So, you’re open to it?” Eddie asks, his big doe-eyes searching Richie’s face. “Us together, with someone else?”

The first image that comes to mind is Eddie sandwiched between Richie and another man, gasping with need, flushed and overwhelmed. Richie’s dick twitches in Eddie’s grip, pre-cum dribbling over his fingers. “I'm not closed off to it. It would, um, have to be the right person. Though I can’t imagine enjoying sex with someone else as much I do with you.” 

“You’re so sweet.” Eddie moves his hand again, speeding up his movements to jack Richie off in earnest. Richie squeezes his eyes shut, heightening his other senses. Eddie is close, right against Richie’s ear as he speaks. There's a smile in his voice, something sultry and devilish. “Being a slut has its benefits. Once you’re ready to settle down, you realize you have, like, an entire arsenal of skills.” 

Anticipation gathers in Richie’s gut, heating him up even more. “Like what?” 

“I can show you, Eddie says, grinding his hard dick against Richie’s thigh, hot and damp through the thin material of his boxers. “It's nothing too kinky, if you’re worried.” 

"I trust you,” Richie says, peeling his eyes open to look at him.

Eddie licks his lips. "How flexible are you?" 

"I- I don't know." 

"We'll see then." Eddie rolls from under Richie’s leg and hops out of bed to dig through his backpack. Richie takes the opportunity to get naked, spreading his legs in preparation. 

Eddie turns and stops in his tracks. "Fuck, look at you," he groans, palming himself through his boxers. Being stared at like this, makes Richie squirm in the best way. He flats a hand over his dick, holding it to his belly, and watches Eddie strip. “Look at _you_ ,” Richie sighs, as Eddie crawls between his knees. 

He wets his fingers and opens Richie up carefully and deliberately, not pressing in too deep. With firm hands, he bends Richie’s knees and plants his feet on the mattress. Then he sits back on his heels, rolls the condom onto his dick, and shifts forward to tucks his thighs under Richie’s ass, lifting up his hips in the process. “This position okay?” he asks, sliding his hands up Richie’s thighs.

Richie nods, his mouth too dry to speak. It’s amazing, Richie is half in his lap, lower back fully off the mattress, chin tucked to his chest, looking over his heaving belly at his bobbing cock. Eddie slicks up his dick and braces his hands on Richie’s hip bones, squeezing his love handles as he presses the head of his dick to Richie’s rim. It’s been too long since Richie’s done this; Eddie feels so much thicker and bigger than he is as he sinks in slowly. The dull pain fades into pleasure when Eddie drives in more, filling him up. Eddie is panting by the time he bottoms out, his eyes half lidded and his adam’s apple jumping in his throat as he hisses something about Richie being ‘so fucking tight.’ He pulls out a bit just to press back in, biting down on his lip, and slides his hands up to Richie’s ribs as he starts to thrust his hips up in quick, short strokes. Just three strokes in and Richie is halfway to coming apart at the seams; it’s as if a jolt of electricity was sent straight up his spine. He feels so fucking full, and his cock leaks and mats the hair on his belly. All he can do is take it, his entire body burning with each little ‘ah’ he lets slip out, keeping his hands limp on his chest because he knows he won’t last if he touches himself.

"Close already?" Eddie huffs, looking amused.

"Yeah," Richie admits, and whines when Eddie slows down, grinding into him rough and filthy. "Sorry, I can-"

Eddie shakes his head. "It's okay. Do you want me to stop or do you want me to make you come?"

His voice is hushed and confident, with a soft edge that makes Richie's skin tingle and the pit of desire in him grow, tightening deliciously at the lowest part of his abdomen.

"I want you to make me come," he says, shivering at both the implication and how wrecked he sounds.

Eddie hooks his arms under the back of Richie's knees, collapsing forward, and folds him in half, fucking him deep. There's determination etched into his features, in his furrowed brows and dark eyes. Richie gasps at the change in angle, throwing his head back into the pillows, feeling himself go cross-eyed at the press of Eddie right against his prostate. His legs go weak and Eddie holds their weight, pulling in his elbows and bringing both hands to Richie's face. When Eddie scrapes his teeth along Richie's exposed throat, dragging his tongue behind the bite, Richie moans, the sound echoing off the wall. 

“Oh, god, I just heard myself,” Richie chuckles, flushing with embarrassment. “I’m so loud, fuck.” 

Eddie’s brows unknit and he chuckles too, his pupils blown. “It’s okay, I like it.” 

Eddie sucks Richie’s bottom lip into his mouth and Richie keens so loud it makes his throat raw. Instinctively, Richie bites down on his knuckles to muffle the noise. Eddie takes both Richie’s hands and holds them in place over his head. "I like the way you sound."

“They’ll hear me.” Richie glances at the door, imagining his desperate moans carrying down the hall.

“What if I want them to hear you?” Eddie pulls out and drives back in hard, pushing Richie up the bed, knocking another moan out of him. He’s sweating, his hair falling over his forehead, his jaw slack with his own moans. He leans down for a messy kiss and Richie gets dizzy, lightheaded, like he's floating and Eddie is the only thing anchoring him.

"Hold this," Eddie says breathlessly and brings Richie's limp hand to his own knee. Richie holds his leg up as high as his can, his hand slipping on sweat. Eddie sits up on his knees, reaches between them and presses two fingertips to the sensitive space under Richie’s balls, right above where he’s rocking into Richie’s shallowly, then fists his cock. Richie’s stomach clenches and warmth spreads through his pelvis, up to his belly. He comes, gasping, releasing fast and hot over his chest. He's stuffed full, the thick head of Eddie's cock nestled in just the right place. It’s as though his orgasm lasts a lifetime, coursing through him so hard he’s shaking with it. For a moment, Richie thinks he's spent but Eddie keeps pressing and he keeps coming, convulsing and crying out, his hips rising off of Eddie’s lap, his cock twitching with nothing left to give. 

In the middle of what is either a work of art or fucking witchcraft, Eddie turns Richie on his side, forcing one knee up to his chest, and sinks back in, snapping his hips fast and hard to chase his own orgasm. Richie is soft between his legs and the second he’s done with what feels like his third orgasm in a row, he’s immediately too sore and sensitive to go on. “Stop, stop,” Richie breathes and Eddie does, pulling out carefully. 

"Shit, I'm sorry, I'm-" 

“C’mere, let me-” Richie rolls onto his back, motioning for Eddie to come closer.

Eddie takes the condom off and straddles Richie's chest, knees pressing into his armpits. Richie takes Eddie's dick into his mouth, tasting the salt of his sweat at the base and bitter pre-cum at the tip. He uses the last of his energy to hollow his cheeks and curl his tongue, loving how Eddie is panting above him, fighting not to go too hard. He pulls out suddenly, falling clumsily onto Richie's belly and pumping a hand over his dick. "Your mouth, or?" 

"Anywhere," Richie says, his voice thick. 

Eddie shifts back, which makes a mess of the cum already drying sticky on Richie's skin, and comes on Richie’s chest. 

"Holy shit, Richie," Eddie gasps, and drops to Richie's side.

"Holy shit yourself," Richie says. "You made me come for like five minutes straight."

"Yeah," Eddie says, with a lopsided smile. "Was that good?"

Richie motions at his spent body and Eddie laughs, pushing a hand through his damp hair. 

"There's a used condom stuck to my back, I think," Eddie says suddenly, and they're both laughing then.

* * *

After their shower, Richie passes out as soon as his head hits the pillow. Not long after, his dry mouth rouses him from his sleep and he carefully untangles himself from Eddie's limbs. 

He shuffles through the dark hallway, eyes barely open, and steps into the kitchen. 

The sight he's met with stops him where he stands in the entryway, blinking. Granted it's late, and he's disoriented from being tired, well-fucked, and without his glasses.

But, he's pretty sure it's Ben in the kitchen, standing at the counter cutting a watermelon with a butcher knife, using just the light of the open refrigerator. On its own, this wouldn't give Richie pause. Except that Ben is wearing lingerie, black and white lace over his toned ass and built pecs. It isn't until he turns to look at Richie— giving quite the interesting view of his front— that Richie realizes that not only is it lingerie, it's a _sexy maid costume._

Ben stares at him, looking alarmingly relaxed considering the situation. "Hey."

Richie blinks again. This has to be a dream, this can't be his life. "Hello."

From down the hall on the other end of the house, Richie hears Bev's voice: "Hurry up, Benjamin, I'm getting impatient!"

“You and Eddie are really fun," Ben says, resigned, holding the knife against the watermelon. "But, if you don't leave now she'll never let you." 

This sets off every single alarm bell in Richie's head and as he turns on his heel to walk away, he remembers the weird vibe he felt when he first shook Bev’s hand. As he steps into the guest room and shakes Eddie awake, he tells himself to never second guess his intuition ever again. 

"Hmm?" Eddie sits up, rubbing his eyes. "What's up?"

"We're leaving. Now."

Eddie squints at the window. "What time is it?"

"Late," Richie says, pulling the covers off of Eddie's lap. "But, I just saw Ben in the kitchen in fucking lingerie, holding a _knife_ and heard Bev shouting at him to hurry up and do _something_ , then he said we should go and, yeah, I agree."

Without further questioning, Eddie swings his legs over the side of the bed and says, "Alright then, let's go."

They pack and get dressed in record time, peering down the hall like characters in a horror movie. "Okay," Richie whispers, taking Eddie's hand. 

Suddenly a light comes on in the hall and Bev appears at the end, dressed head to toe in a strappy leather costume. 

Richie jumps and blurts out: "Please don't kill us!”

Bev laughs and Richie understands what Eddie meant by her smile. Suspiciously toothy. "Where are you two headed? You aren't leaving are you?"

"Nope! We aren't going anywhere," Eddie forces out, shoving Richie back into the guest room. To Bev, he says, “I’m sorry about him. He gets like this sometimes.” 

Eddie shuts the door, goes to the bed, and rummages through his backpack. When he retrieves a joint and puts it between his lips, Richie is sure this is a nightmare. 

"What the hell are you doing?” 

"I'm gonna smoke," Eddie says calmly, and pats his pockets. "Need a light though." 

"Eddie, what the fu-" 

"We're definitely leaving soon. Just gotta do this first." 

Wordlessly, Eddie turns on the light and goes to the bathroom, returning with a roll of toilet paper, a towel, a can of air freshener, and the metal trash bin. He drops the toilet paper into the bin, stuffs the towel inside on top, and saturates it with the air freshener. Richie watches this, somewhere between awed and confused, as Eddie methodically rolls up the rug, places the trash bin in the middle of the wooden floor and lights it up. The flames shoot up before settling into a steady burn. Frozen in place, Richie whispers, "What the fuck, Eddie…" 

Eddie squats next to the fire and lights the joint. "Yeah?"

"Eddie, how…? _What_?"

"This isn't my first rodeo." Eddie grins, both timid and devious somehow, and passes the joint to Richie. 

Richie accepts it, figuring taking a hit might soothe the millions of thoughts racing through his head at hyper speed. "I like the cowboy imagery."

"Yee-fuckin-haw," Eddie intones, and stands up to kiss Richie with a mouth full of smoke.

As if on cue, the smoke alarm begins to sound and shortly after, the door swings open and Ben bursts into the room with a fire extinguisher, still in his lingerie.

"You didn't tell me it was a _maid's costume,_ " Eddie says as they make their escape.

They all but run through the hallway, but only make it as far as the kitchen. 

Bev is there, blocking the way to the living room, still in her impressive leather outfit. This time though, she's wielding a whip.

Panicked, Richie fumbles with his backpack and takes out his pepper spray, hoping to Christ that he doesn't actually have to use it. 

Ben comes back into the kitchen, looking particularly put out and Bev points to Eddie and orders, "Get him out of here."

"Hey, what the _hell-_ " Eddie jumps away as Ben approaches, but before he knows it, Ben is picking him up and throwing him over a shoulder like he weighs nothing. 

“Richie!” Eddie shrieks, reaching for him.

Ben, apologizing the entire time, hauls Eddie off down the hallway, impervious to Eddie's struggle.

The whip cracks against the kitchen tile, snapping Richie out of his frozen state and he flinches, striding forward with his pepper spray in hand. Bev raises an eyebrow at him, like she’s daring him to. Richie presses down on the nozzle and-

“ _Shit!”_ Richie drops the canister, lifting his glasses to rub at his eyes, which only makes the burning worse. 

From down the hall, through his groans, Richie hears Eddie’s voice: “Richie, a little help please, I’m about to be murdered.” 

Coughing and half blinded, Richie stumbles to the table for something to wipe his face. He finds an abandoned glass of water and an entire roll of paper towels. Faintly, in the back of his mind, he knows this won’t work, but he does it anyway. He dumps the water over the paper towels, spilling most of it in the process, and drags them over his face, wishing this wasn’t the very first time he used pepper spray.

Bev cracks the whip again and Richie, grabbing the first thing he sees when he wrenches his eyes open, throws an apple in her direction. It hits her in the chest with the loud thump and she drops her whip. “Ow, jesus christ!” 

Richie charges for the weapon—or sex toy, depending on who you ask— slipping on the tile, and hip-checking Bev so hard she goes flying into the pantry door. He picks up the whip, stepping back to watch her piercing blue eyes narrow at him.

“Fuck you!” she shouts, then she opens a drawer and takes out a paring knife.

It happens in slow motion— Bev swings her arm back and flings the knife at him. It flips through the air across the room and embeds itself right into the flesh and muscle of Richie’s bicep.

Richie assumes he cries out, if the rawness in his throat is anything to go by, but immediately afterward, there’s an odd moment where everything goes silent and all he hears is his labored breath and his heartbeat in his ears. He stares at Bev and she stares back at him, unfazed.

Distantly, there’s banging down the hall, then Eddie’s voice again, muffled now: “Please don’t murder my boyfriend. We’ve only been together for like two days. It wouldn’t be fair.” 

Then, the shock subsides and Richie forgets all about the burning in his eyes in favor of the sharp pain in his arm and the _knife_ sticking out of it.

“Oh my god?” The pain spreads down his forearm and up his shoulder, and when he tries to move to inspect the wound, he hisses. “You just-”

“Give me my fucking whip,” Bev says, holding out her hand. She’s blurry through Richie’s vision and he realizes then that he might be crying a little, unsure if it’s from the shock and pain of being stabbed or the mortifying ordeal of accidentally pepper spraying yourself.

“You just stabbed me?” 

“I’ll do it again.” 

“Tell your husband to let my boyfriend go and I’ll give you your whip,” Richie says, and it sounds sort of heroic considering he’s possibly moments away from passing out. 

“Let’s make a deal-” 

“Listen lady, you just fucking stabbed me. I don’t want to fuck you,” Richie spits out, and he feels mean but there’s blood dripping down his arm, his boyfriend is locked in a room somewhere, and _they’ve only been together for two days,_ so sue him if he’s a little pissed off.

Richie cracks the whip and immediately regrets the sudden movement because, well, there’s a literal knife sticking out of his arm. He drops the whip and falls against the table, woozy. 

Ben chooses this moment to return to the kitchen, still in his ridiculous costume, holding a key ring in his hand. He stares wide-eyed at Richie and turns to Bev. “Beverly, sweetie, we can’t force them to stay.”

“I really don’t want to have sex with your wife,” Richie says stupidly. “Like, sorry if that upsets you, but we just want to leave.”

“Why are you bleeding?” Bev asks, and for a second anger flashes in Richie again because ‘ _I’m bleeding because you stabbed me!’_ but then he realizes she’s talking to Ben.

“He punched me,” Ben explains, and Richie blinks to focus his vision on Ben’s bloody nose and lip. “He also bit me.” 

“Just let him out and we’ll go,” Richie pleads, trying to hold his arm still to keep it from throbbing. “We won’t say anything.” 

“Fine,” Bev says bitterly, waving her hand towards the hallway. “Let him out.”

Ben leaves with a heavy sigh, jingling the keys as he goes. There’s sounds of a struggle down the hall, then rapid footsteps, and Eddie bolts into the kitchen.

Upon seeing the state Richie is in, Eddie just about loses his mind. He says nearly every curse word known to man and if this were any other time, Richie might let him continue his tirade. But, as it is, Richie could be in danger of losing a lot of blood. So, with his good hand, he pulls Eddie back. “Let’s just go.”

They leave the knife in— Eddie’s executive decision after Richie stupidly suggests pulling it out— and Richie climbs into the passenger’s seat of the car, hissing at every minuscule movement. 

Eddie turns the key in the ignition, and Richie realizes belatedly, "We could have gone through the window.”

"Where's the fun in that?" Eddie says, speeding down the road. “Hey, by the way, I know how to do stitches if you’re up for that adventure.”

Richie chuckles, and even that hurts. “Hospital please…I won’t even ask how you know how to do stitches.”

“Not my first rodeo,” Eddie mumbles.

“Yee-haw,” Richie responds.

* * *

At the ER, as he’s getting his arm stitched up, Richie wonders if being here is just some form of bad karma. 

Eddie is standing at his side, opening a bag of candy, and watching the nurses work, unbothered by the open, bleeding wound on Richie’s arm.

“So,” he says conversationally, holding a gummy worm to Richie’s lips. “Bev and Ben have a sex dungeon.”

High on painkillers and reeling from the absurdity of his current situation, Richie looks at him and bursts into laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this seems like it's bordering on crack fic but, like, it isn't.
> 
> anyway, chapter 5 is way calmer than this. 😇
> 
> feel free to yell at me in the comments or hit me up on Twitter @ curiousair


	5. tender is the touch (of someone that you love too much)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title credit- tender, by blur

It’s 2 AM when they leave the hospital, with Richie dragging behind Eddie in his groggy, post-adrenaline-rush state. Eddie drives them to a 24 hour diner, where he attempts to perk Richie up with a chocolate milkshake the size of his head. They stay there for hours, their sleepy conversation turning into cyclical rambles about everything and nothing at all. There, in the diner, with fresh, sore stitches and irritated eyes, Richie looks at the window, at their images reflected back to them against the backdrop of the late night, at his tousled hair and crooked grin, the patient curl of Eddie’s lips, his fingertips tickling Richie’s stubbled cheeks. The sun comes up, and they watch the wide expanse of the sky above the skyscrapers gradually lighten to a bright blue. They hold each other, sitting dead center in a repose they’ve made for themselves, surrounded by the layers and layers of delectable tension they thrive on. It’s the same, but different. Around the core, there’s a new layer of curiosity, all the questions Richie wants to ask but doesn’t know how, can’t figure out how to dig deep enough to get there. It’s part of the problem, he supposes, that the most urgent question he wants to ask is the very reason he’s hesitant. 

Who is Eddie Kaspbrak?

Richie has asked himself this question before, when he was first struck by Eddie’s presence and energy, the way he melted into Richie’s embrace. Other things have come to light since then, simultaneously shoving a wedge in the cushy, cloud-like feelings he gets when Eddie holds him and adding to the consistent current that stretches between them, even when they aren’t touching. 

In the silence of the car, waiting for Eddie to leave the bank, Richie’s crowded thoughts have room to breathe.

Eddie has been arrested before, and had mentioned it with such shocking nonchalance that Richie had no choice but to bury it. Richie thinks of the money now, 20,000 in cash, the origin of which he never questioned. There’s also the fire Eddie started with the ease of a practiced arsonist, burning a layer of his mystique with it. In the same night, Richie witnessed another layer peel back to show Eddie’s anger, Ben’s bloodied face at the hands of him, the fierce way he had defended Richie. Eddie could have been a different person before they met, someone who gave in more to his ferocity. Pieces that may be from his past lend to who he is now and Richie  _ likes_ who Eddie is now, at least what he knows of him.  _ I like waking up with him, I like falling asleep with him, he likes Dolly Parton, he makes me come really hard-_

With Eddie, Richie finally feels like he has a path to follow. Even if it’s undefined, at least he has someone at his side that makes him feel good. But there’s an insecurity and fear festering, growing like mold, asking Richie if it’s enough that someone simply makes you  _ feel good_?

Eddie walks out of the bank, just the sight of him bringing a smile to Richie’s face. How is Richie supposed to argue with that knee-jerk reaction?

“Okay, so they totally think I’m a criminal,” Eddie says, giving Richie a quick kiss on the cheek. He starts the car, chuckling more to himself than to Richie. “I mean, shit, a guy walks into a bank with 10 thousand dollars cash, I’d probably think they were a criminal too.”

“Where are we going next?” Richie asks, swallowing the question at the back of his tongue. It feels awfully like a lie. 

Eddie starts the car and turns down the music he was previously blasting. “Anywhere you wanna go, babe.”

It’s still early when they get to Venice beach, too early for Eddie to indulge in the junk food he raved about the entire way there. They walk the mostly empty path to Santa Monica pier, past closed store fronts, early morning joggers, and homeless people. By the time they get to the pier, staring up at the old ferris wheel, they’ve given most of the cash in their wallets away.

They share a joint under the boardwalk, sitting in glass and cigarette butts. Laying in in the sand, watching the pull of the gentle waves reminds Richie that they’ve been up all night. He can’t imagine what he looks like now— he can feel his chapped lips, his red eyes. Eddie looks worse for wear too, but still undeniably striking, the dark circles under his eyes almost make him look cool. Eddie stands up and digs through the dirty sand for shells, finding trash instead. “Wish the funnel cake place was open,” he says, for the third time. Richie pulls him back down into the sand and they kiss until it’s just a lazy brush of their lips.

It’s close to noon when they leave the beach in favor of a quaint coffee shop. Tucked into two seats in the back with one black coffee and one one iced vanilla latte, Richie takes his journal out and puts it on the table. Somewhere in the rush of leaving Bev and Ben’s house, Richie lost his fountain pens, and all he has now is a shitty ballpoint that will only press harsh lines onto his paper and promptly die. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Eddie says, around a yawn. “Is that like a diary, or...?” 

“A journal, really,” Richie answers. "It isn't really a comprehensive transcript of my everyday life or anything.”

“What-” Eddie stops, swiping his tongue over his lip. His eyes are tired, always deep and dark. “What do you write?”

“Um, experiences and thoughts I want to remember, I guess. I like to be able to look back, even though most of it is nonsense that might not make sense in a few years.”

Eddie opens his mouth to say something else, a question sparkling in his eyes, a blush on his cheeks. Richie suddenly feels the way Eddie looks, shy, placing a hand over the cover of his journal.  _ Yes_, Richie thinks, _I write about you. _

“Did you write about Bev and Ben?" Eddie grins, bringing his coffee to his lips. "Down the line you'll be able to look back on how we were almost kidnapped by a pair of married sex fiends." 

Richie laughs, pulling Eddie in with an arm around his shoulders. "I haven't, but I will." 

Eddie closes his eyes, still smiling. "Oh, and make sure you write that I punched Ben. Feel free to exaggerate his injuries.” 

"My journal exists to stroke your ego now?" 

"Mhmm," Eddie hums, and falls asleep to the symphony of espresso machines, milk frothers, and glasses clinking.

_ July 27th- How many married couples in LA are just like Bev and Ben? Letting their desires and loneliness lead them down a rabbit hole of domination and manipulation. How many men are there like Eddie Kaspbrak? More of a thrilling mystery than anyone would ever see on him at first. A hint of danger with his charm. How many men are there like me? Eating up the thrill like it’s the only thing that feeds my soul, delighting in the risk of electrocuting myself on an addicting spark.... _

* * *

A coin toss sends them northeast towards Nevada instead of up the coast towards Oregon. Mojave is all dry heat and high desert wind with not a cloud in sight. It's a jarring difference from the cool breeze of the beach, but as they left LA county, it felt like breaking new ground, bulldozing through to make space for what they're building together. 

The man working the front desk at the hotel gives them a  _ look _ when they walk in holding hands, one that Richie is all too familiar with. Even at his age, having experienced much worse than a judgmental look for being visibly not straight, his stomach drops a little. Eddie gives the man a look in return, a wide-eyed, faux-innocent one with just as much power as a glare, snatches the key card, and puts his hand in Richie’s back pocket as they walk away.

They take a shower as soon as they settle into the room, washing off the remnants of the last 24 hours, sand, sweat, and specks of dried blood. Richie experiences shower sex for the first time, which Eddie had talked up so much that the actual outcome feels like a letdown. The water pressure from the crooked, non-adjustable showerhead is too high, so the entire time Richie is slotted against Eddie's back with a hand around his dick, it feels like they're both dangerously close to slipping and cracking their heads open. That, and Eddie looks like he’s being waterboarded the entire time, which they can't stop laughing about, even as they turn so they can rut against each other, Eddie into Richie's thigh, Richie into his hip. 

"So," Eddie giggles, collapsing against the title, "you just lost your shower sex virginity. How was it?" 

Richie blushes and attempts to dump the hotel shampoo out of its tiny bottle into his hand. Shampoo is another thing he neglected to pack, and he figures a trip to Walmart should be on their to-do list at some point. "Better than my actual first time.” 

Eddie slips the bottle from Richie's fingers and crushes it in his hand, dripping the watery contents into Richie's palm. “Tell me about your first time."

"I was 17 and I thought I was in love," Richie sighs, scrubbing the shampoo into his hair. "I wasn't. It was awful. That's basically it." 

"Been there before," Eddie drones, and lifts his arms up to massage his fingers into Richie's scalp. It's helpful, considering Richie keeps forgetting about his stitches. 

"Thank you." Richie went through a long phase where he gave and gave and never got anything in return. By long, he means ten years. He was nearly 30 when he finally figured out he was allowed better things and that he didn't have to suffer for love. He looks at Eddie, standing under the aggressive stream of water now.  _ This is easy. _

"What about you?" Richie asks. He squeezes in next to Eddie and ducks his head under the water. "Tell me about  _ your _ first time."

"I was 15. The memory is sort of nightmarish."

Richie rinses the shampoo from his hair, waiting for Eddie to continue. Eddie steps into the corner of the shower, fumbling with a bar of soap.

"I was  _ stupid_," Eddie says, and he's smiling a little, something wry and twisted. "I wanted him to think I was older and, like, more experienced so I told him I was 17 and I- I guess I never got around to telling him the truth before we-" 

Richie waits for the rest, queasiness churning in his stomach. When the silence stretches on a bit too long and it's clear that Eddie doesn't mean to say more, Richie asks, "How old was he?" 

"Um, older. 21, I think.” He drops his gaze to the shower drain, making a noise that’s more similar to a huff than a laugh. “He bought me a beer after, I remember."

"I'm sorry," Richie blurts out and Eddie looks at him like he's confused.

But then he says, "I'm fine," like he knows exactly why Richie is apologizing. "It was 15 years ago." He turns away, too quickly, ending the conversation. 

With their skin warm and damp from the shower, they climb under the itchy sheets and fall asleep. They sleep on and off through the rest of the evening and night, waking up to kiss, talk, and watch the light change through the crack in the curtains, only to let their eyes slip closed again. 

Richie sits up close to 5 AM, nearly 12 hours since he first got into bed. Eddie's silhouette steps into the dark room, letting in the warm light from the hall. 

"Hey, you're awake," he says quietly, excitement creeping into his voice. He walks to the window and opens the curtains to let the moon in, then comes to the bed carrying a donut box with two coffees balanced precariously on top. "They didn't have anything with marshmallows but they had one that's supposed to taste like hot chocolate." Richie attempts to focus his vision without his glasses, too lazy to reach for them on the other side of the nightstand. He can make out the dimples in Eddie's cheeks, which is perfect for now. Eddie opens the box, and plucks a dark chocolate topped donut. "Here, taste," he says, and practically force feeds it to Richie. 

"It's good," Richie mumbles, wiping sleep from his eyes with one hand, accepting the coffee cup from Eddie with the other. "Where did you find a Starbucks that's open this early?" 

"There's one like 15 minutes from here, but they were out of vanilla syrup for your drink, so I found another one 30 minutes away that was just opening." 

Though he's swooning, Richie can't resist a joke. "Did you use GPS?" 

Eddie smirks. "I made it back, didn't I?" 

Richie kisses him then, crawling over the flimsy donut box to get his hands on either side of Eddie's face. In between their gross, morning breath kisses, Eddie asks, "Will you watch the sunrise with me?"

"Of course." Richie puts the donuts aside, collapses back into the flat pillows and pats his chest. Eddie gets undressed and climbs into Richie's lap, his back to Richie's chest. They can’t see through the window from the bed, but they can see the bluish light the brightening sky casts on the carpet and over the white walls.

"This is nice," Richie hums, his arms settled around Eddie's waist.

"It is," Eddie agrees. Moments later, Richie’s eyes slip closed.

When Richie wakes up again around 11 AM, it feels like he’s in an oven. He slaps a hand over his face and it's warm to the touch, the brightness in the room showing red behind his eyelids.

"Close the curtains," he groans, rolling over and kicking the sheets off of his sweaty body like an angry child. The second he hears the swish of the curtains and the semi-cool relief of a darker room, he falls asleep again.

Eventually— it could be anywhere between five minutes and an hour, Richie’s internal clock is screwed— Eddie starts his 'wake up Richie' process. Kisses, unfair tickling, and mindless chatter. "I saw a video once of someone putting a blacklight to a hotel wall. It changed me."

Richie chuckles and peels his eyes open. Eddie is sitting up, wearing nothing but his boxers, Richie’s t-shirt, and a patient smile.

"Breakfast?" 

“Ugh.” Richie yawns and shuts his eyes. "Too hot to move. Come back to bed.”

Eddie touches his thumb to Richie’s cheek, dragging over the rough stubble. “I’m hungry.”

“We’ll order something,” Richie says, taking Eddie’s hand. “Let's stay here all day, I'm tired. My arm hurts. Want to kiss you." 

Not only does Eddie humor Richie by lying back down, he also places delicate kisses to Richie's arm, careful around the stitches, then shimmies down the bed to suck Richie off. 

They spend the rest of the day lying naked except for their boxers, watching bad court TV and eating junk food. The hotel room's measly AC unit does nothing to combat the heat, but it's a valid excuse to lie around half clothed. And lying around half clothed with Eddie just might be one of Richie’s favorite things.

"We should probably eat something green soon or we'll keel over," Richie says, accepting the gummy candy Eddie feeds him. 

Eddie, with a mouth full of candy, says, "Speak for yourself." He crawls up between Richie's legs, pressing feather light kisses up his belly and chest, before laying fully on top of him. It's too hot like this, their skin sticking together with sweat, the air cooling uncomfortably on the newly exposed spaces each time they move. Richie holds him close despite the heat, kissing along the curve of his shoulder. 

Every time they're here, in a space where it's unclear where one body ends and the other begins, Richie falls harder. Their breathing is synced, and Eddie is loose-limbed on top of him, and Richie is happy to support every ounce of his weight. It takes trust to give yourself up to someone like this, to let go enough to allow them responsibility for your comfort. Richie has felt it before—each time he sat with or lay with someone new, there was a moment in which they realized they were safe, a moment in which they deemed Richie trustworthy. He glows with pride thinking of this feeling, but with Eddie it’s so much more than pride. They touch without it being a means to an end, finding comfort in every second, every moment, the insistent  _ now, now, now _ buzzing under his skin. It's more than a simple transaction, or a shallow exchange of energy. It isn’t a journey to contentedness. The journey  _ is _ the prize.

"Have you done this before?” Richie asks, trailing his fingers through the dip in Eddie’s spine. “Running away, I mean." 

"Not like this," Eddie says. He quiet for a minute, his voice softer when he speaks up again. “Whenever I did it, it wasn’t because I felt trapped or tied down. It was because I felt like...untethered, like I was just moving around with no real direction. I didn't have a place to just stay. I always looked at it as running  _ to  _ something rather than away.” 

"Wow," Richie says stupidly. "Yeah, I mean. I've felt the same. Untethered."

“This is different though, with you. It kind of feels like…”

_ Amazing, perfect, beautiful.  _ “Like you’re finally where you’re meant to be?”

“I-” Eddie sucks in a breath and looks up at Richie, smiling tenderly. “Yeah, exactly.”

Sometimes just the sight of him shocks the words right out of Richie. Sometimes, Richie has to remind himself that this isn't a dream, that Eddie's wide, expressive eyes are really fixed on him like this. Fond and steady, hypnotizing Richie with their openness. Eddie kisses him, sweet with sugar, salty with sweat, slowly licking into his mouth. They're content to stay like this, kissing languidly, mostly still. Richie keeps a hand at the small of Eddie’s back and silently chants:  _ ‘This is where we're meant to be.’ _

"I ran away a lot when I was a teenager," Eddie offers some time later, half muffled into Richie's neck. "I would do anything. Cut screens out of windows, start fires...I got into a lot of shit when I was out, and for a long time I thought it was just normal teen rebellion, you know. Smoking and drinking...fighting. Then I got older, and I was still doing it. Quitting jobs, moving around the city."

"You mentioned before that you, um-" Richie licks his lips, his mouth suddenly drier than the worst case of cottonmouth. "You've been arrested before."

"Yeah."

"Why- what did you..? What happened?"

“Okay." Eddie exhales deeply, burying his face further into Richie's neck. "I’m not a criminal, I’m not a thief or, like, a drug dealer. I obtained all of that money legally, alright.” 

“I'm not- I wasn’t accusing you.” Richie’s heart begins to race and he’s close to saying nevermind, close to telling him that he doesn’t have to tell his entire life story, close to telling him it doesn’t matter at all. “You don’t have to-”

“I know...but, I would understand if you were." Eddie rolls over, looks at the ceiling. He keeps himself half in Richie's lap, never wanting to lose a point of physical contact. "I’ve had a lot of shitty under the table jobs. I wasn’t exactly qualified for much else when I moved here and I was on my own, so I did what I could. I sold some cars, did some landscaping, even had a shitty dishwashing job that lasted about two weeks. I had a lot going on at the time, and I was around some not-so-great people. Being arrested was sort of a wake up call."

“So...what happened?"

“I- I um-" Eddie clenches his jaw, drags his hands over his face and tucks himself back into Richie's side, mumbling the rest into Richie's armpit. "I got into a fight.”

Richie waits for a beat. His shoulders release, and it only makes Eddie tense more in his arms. Holding him tighter, Richie cranes his neck to tuck his face into Eddie’s hair. "Is that it?" 

“That’s it.” Eddie's face is warm against Richie's skin, his eyelashes fluttering."I’m just- I have a bad temper, sort of."

“Oh.” Richie wants to lift his face up and look at him, but he doesn't force it. "That's- you don't have to be ashamed of that."

Eddie looks up at him, beet red. "I don't want you to think that I'm like- I’ve been working on it, I swear. I haven’t assaulted anyone in like, almost a decade. Unless you count Ben, but that was self defense. I don't want you to...see me differently, I guess.” 

"I do see you differently," Richie admits softly. "But not in a bad way. It's just...more of you. I like knowing things about you."

"I don't like acting like an asshole," Eddie says, his eyes shining. "So, you have to promise to tell me if I am."

"I promise."

Eddie ducks his head, leaves a faint kiss between Richie’s collarbones. “Thank you.”

* * *

Tucked between a dry cleaner’s and a liquor store, there’s an antique and thrift shop with dusty mannequins, lamps, and knick-knacks sitting in the alcove of the cloudy glass display window.

“Is it antique or thrift? I feel like there’s a distinct difference.” Richie follows behind Eddie through the cramped aisle of clothes, grinning when Eddie pulls an eggplant purple bowling shirt with the name Buck embroidered on the chest pocket. 

“Vintage,” Eddie drones. “Some poor asshole in LA would pay 60 bucks for this. I just might buy it.”

“If you find a matching one for me, I’m all for it,” Richie tells him, and delights in how much Eddie's smile grows.

"You're kind of cheesy and I love that about you.”

The shop is stuffy, a vague mothball scent in the air, and half the lights in the ceiling are out. The back of the room houses an eclectic variety of furniture and the far corner has shelves of smaller items. Richie steps away from Eddie to look closer, ending up stopping short at an entire rack of cowboy hats. There are dozens, some felt with leather embellishments, some straw with feathers, some with tacky cow print. “Hey, look what I found.” 

Eddie’s eyes light up like a kid on Christmas morning. “Fuck yeah.” He comes over and stands in front of the cracked mirror next to the rack, immediately picking up a bright pink hat with gemstones and glitter glued to the crown and putting it on his head. Turning to Richie with a hilariously serious expression, Eddie asks: "Think I can pull this off?"

"You could pull anything off," Richie answers, just as serious. 

Eddie scoffs and takes the hat off. "You're just saying that because you like me.”

"Maybe so." Behind Eddie, there's a shelf of old jewelry boxes, pen cases, and snowglobes. A leather pen case sat in the middle of two bookends catches his eye. He steps around Eddie's impromptu cowboy hat fashion show and picks up the case. The soft, light brown leather encases a harder shell and when he turns it over in his hand, he hears something inside. Upon opening it, he finds four fountain pens and their cartridges. He turns it over in his hand again, stroking the worn leather. 

“Richie-” 

Richie turns and Eddie is wearing a black cowboy hat, rounded in the front with a short crown and curved brim. “Oh. Very Brokeback.” He puts the pen case down and goes to him, pulling him in for a kiss. 

Eddie laughs into it, slipping his hands in Richie's back pockets. “How ridiculous do I look?” 

Richie fingers the smooth canvas material, imagining Eddie in the hat and not much else. Straddling Richie's lap, one hand digging its nails into Richie's shoulder, the other on his head to keep the hat on-

“Not at all. Actually...I’m afraid to tell you how much I like it.” 

"You won't tell me your dirty thoughts in public?"

" _Nope_."

"Rude." Eddie narrows his eyes and takes off the hat, placing it on the rack. He drifts back over to the clothing racks, pushing aside some empty hangers. “Anyway, how much do I really wanna commit to the whole ‘dark, wandering cowboy’ aesthetic?” 

When Eddie’s back is turned, Richie picks up the hat and goes to the register. As he's rushing to pay without Eddie seeing, he hears Eddie exclaim behind him.

"I found one!" Eddie holds up another bowling shirt, black with flames on the sleeves and the name Ace on its pocket. "This one can be for you. Unless you want to be Buck?"

Richie chuckles. "Queer Theory: Which one is the Buck and which one is the Ace?"

"You're Buck," Eddie decides, hanging both shirts over his arms. "It's settled. I'm buying these."

"I'll let you," Richie jibes, holding the cowboy hat out of view. “Almost ready to go?” 

“Almost. A few more minutes.” 

“I’ll wait outside," Richie says, and promptly excuses himself. 

Eddie comes out of the shop minutes later carrying a paper bag. He slides into the driver's seat and starts talking immediately, seeming to miss the cowboy hat on Richie's lap.

"So, I got the shirts-" Eddie stops, clamping his mouth shut to suppress his grin. Richie can see it though, there's no hiding emotion in eyes like his. "You bought the hat for me."

"Yeah. Hopefully that isn't weird. I don't know if we're at the gift giving stage of our relationship stage yet, but I knew you liked it. And maybe I'm a little selfish because I also  _ really _ liked it-"

"Richie," Eddie interrupts softly. "I love it."

"Good," Richie sighs, truly relieved. "I'm glad."

"And I-" Eddie licks his lips and opens the paper bag. "I got you something too."

"Oh." Richie isn’t great at accepting gifts, but he goes warm at the thought of Eddie buying him something. 

"Close your eyes."

Richie does as he's told and Eddie takes his hand, curling his fingers around smooth, worn leather. He opens his eyes, and the leather pen case is in his palm, complete with a hastily tied ribbon. It’s not a grand gesture or luxury gift, but Richie still has to take a deep breath to keep tears from welling up in his eyes.

"You didn't have to get this for me."

"I wanted to,” Eddie says, with so much sincerity in his eyes and voice that Richie has to look away before he starts to cry. “I like to see you smile." 

“Thank you,” Richie breathes, and reaches across the center console to take his hand. “This is so cool.”

“My pleasure.” Eddie puts the paper bag in the backseat, leaning over to kiss the corner of Richie's mouth as he does. "Where to, babe?"

"Anywhere with you."

The end up parked in the desert off a one way dirt road, miles of empty land around them. They're full from food truck tacos, drunk on the type of carefree happiness Richie hasn’t felt in decades, kicking up loose dirt in the wind as they dance to music blaring from Eddie's car. The stereo system is up as high as the speakers will allow, playing Patsy Cline. Eddie is wearing his new hat, leading Richie in a clumsy rendition of a slow dance. The sun is low in the sky, casting orange over his features.

"I have two left feet," Richie explains.

Eddie steps closer, slowing them down to a sway. "Good, because I have two right feet.”

"And  _ I'm _ the cheesy one."

When Richie's phone vibrates in his pocket, he’s confused for a minute because who could possibly be texting him if Eddie is here, right in front of him. He slips his phone out of his pocket and looks at the contact, expecting his old roommate.

"Oh, it's my mom. I'm gonna-"

"Of course." Eddie slides up onto the hood of the car and lies back, shielding his face from the sun with his hat. 

Richie gets in the car and turns down the music, closing the door to block the wind. "Hey mom."

"Richie," she says, somehow stern and weary at the same time. "You haven't been answering my calls. I didn't get your message saying you were leaving town until yesterday and I've been calling you since. What's going on? Are you in trouble? Where are you?"

"Mom," Richie says, mimicking her tone. "I'm fine. I'm in Mojave and the service is spotty. I'm not in trouble. I- um, I have a boyfriend."

It’s quiet where she is, her surprised gasp sounding too loud over the line. "A boyfriend?"

"Yeah, I met someone."

Eddie chooses this moment to turn and look at Richie through the windshield, mouthing the word 'okay' with a curious raise of his brow. Richie smiles and gives him a thumbs up.

“Oh, Richie you didn’t tell me.” 

“I know. Everything happened really fast.” 

“Well, go on, tell me about him.” 

Richie looks up through the windshield. Eddie has his face close to the glass now, smiling like he knows Richie is talking about him. It wouldn't be a surprise. He can  _ feel _ the lovesick grin on his face, and maybe Eddie knows it’s just for him. “His name is Eddie. He’s a mechanic. He’s really-” 

“Handsome?” 

Eddie blows him a kiss now, hamming it up. Richie blows one back and Eddie pretends to catch it. “So handsome.” 

“Treat you well?” 

Richie blushes. “Yes.” 

“That’s all I need to know. I want to be the first to get a wedding invite.” 

“Alright mom, will do.” 

"I'm kidding," she says, laughter in her voice. She sighs and adds, "You sound happy." 

"I am happy." 

As Richie listens to his mother tell him about her day, he looks up at Eddie, who is watching him intently. Eddie mouths something Richie can’t hear through the glass and laughs, which Richie  _ can _ hear. On the phone, his mother is saying, “I know you said you don’t know when you’ll be back, but hopefully it’s soon.” Suddenly, like a flash flood, he wants to cry. He misses home, and not his single room in a shared house in Chatsworth, he misses his childhood home, his room upstairs with the creaky floorboard, his mother listening to the same Jane’s Addiction album on repeat. He wants Eddie there with him, sitting at the kitchen table with Richie’s mother, laughing and fussing over a puzzle with too-small pieces.

Richie ends the call, after promising to call her at least every other day, and joins Eddie on the hood of the car. It rocks and dips under his weight as he lies against the windshield. "I know, I know, I'm a momma's boy."

"That isn't a bad thing." Eddie takes Richie's hand and looks at something off in the distance. "I had a foster mom when I was like 7 and I was with her until I was 10. That’s how I got into country music, if you were wondering. She had a record player that her dad gave her, and all these records from the 60s. The other kids and I would hang out close by, arguing over who got to put the next vinyl on...she was the closest thing I ever had to a mom. After she passed, I felt like I just knew I would never have anything like that again. So, yeah, I think it’s cool that you’re close to your mom.”

"I'm sorry,” Richie tells him, a little pathetic sounding. The idea that you could resign yourself to never having a certain kind of love makes his heart sink.

"It's okay." Eddie says. "I was thinking about what you said yesterday, about how you like learning more things about me."

"Yeah, I do."

"I like that." Eddie shifts his position, bringing Richie’s hand to his chest. "Even though I'm like, weirdly uncomfortable with volunteering information about myself. I think I just got used to no one asking."

“I want to know everything about you.” 

“Man, I wouldn't even know where to start.” 

They know each other's favorite colors— Eddie likes red in all its shades, and Richie likes blue, except for pastel. They've talked about their favorite songs— _ You Are The Everything by R.E.M_., Richie had said.  _ It makes me tear up every time_. Eddie says his favorite song changes every day. The last Richie heard, it was I Lived My Life by Dolly Parton. They know that neither of them has a middle name. Richie knows that Eddie is a Gemini and that he ‘doesn’t believe in that stuff, really.’ But when he found out Richie is a Libra, he suddenly became interested in finding out if the stars thought they were compatible. Apparently, they are, which Richie refuses to look too much into, no matter how tempting it is.

“You can start anywhere.” 

"Well, I’m from the East Coast, which you knew. I’m an orphan, which you also knew. I think I’m bisexual. Um, I drove for like five years without a license because I had a bunch of speeding-” 

Richie looks at him. “You’re bisexual?” 

“Maybe? Or something else.” Eddie shrugs, nonchalant. “Generally queer, I guess. I haven’t thought about it a lot.” 

"Even before I actually  _ knew _ I was gay, I knew,” Richie says. “I think I kissed a girl once when I was eleven and was extremely underwhelmed.”

“I threw up immediately after my first kiss,” Eddie says, and rolls his eyes. "And since we’re airing embarrassing secrets, what else do you want to know about me?”

"Um...what's your biggest insecurity?”

"My height," Eddie answers, solemn for about half a second before laughing. "Joking obviously. Um, I don't know how to answer that. I have a lot of insecurities...I guess the first that comes to mind is the fact that I'm 30 and I'm, like...not doing much."

"Oof, that’s relatable. Ten years ago, I envisioned almost-35-year-old Richie in a completely different way. But, I think about that now and I realize that if that had gone to plan I wouldn't have met you."

“Well, ten years ago I didn’t have any plans at all for my life.” Eddie kisses Richie’s knuckles and closes his eyes. “So, this is a pretty sweet deal.”

"Where do you see yourself ten years from now?"

"Settled down, hopefully," Eddie says and adds another nonchalant shrug. "Maybe married, maybe not."

Richie clears his throat and asks, tentatively, "Do you want kids someday?" 

Eddie pauses and opens his eyes, turning to look at him fully. "Do  _ you _ want kids someday?"

"I- I think so,” Richie says. “I like kids.”

Eddie turns his face towards the sky, then glances at Richie from the corner of his eye. "Not going to lie, kids terrify me. Too many opportunities to fuck them up.”

“You know, there’s always opportunities to do better than the people who fucked us up.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, barely a whisper, a pensive look on his face.

“I want to be married before I’m 40,” Richie confesses. As soon as it’s out of his mouth, it feels like time stops. Eddie keeps his gaze at the cloudless, darkening sky and Richie holds his breath. His heart races, and he can feel Eddie’s racing under his palm too.

Marriage has always been higher on Richie’s list of priorities than it should be, even when he was younger. Reading about weddings through the lens of his mom’s romance novels made him into someone who craved public declarations of love, whether they were kisses in the rain, running away together, or intimate wedding ceremonies. He’s always wanted a family, even if it’s just his partner and a dog that sleeps at their feet in bed. If he had a family, and a home, no one could call him strange for putting his heart and soul into taking care of other things and people before himself. It would be his job, likely more fulfilling than any other job he'll have, and no one could tell him his selflessness is just a symptom of self neglect.

“Five years,” Eddie speaks quietly, a hint of a smile. He hooks his pinky over Richie's pinky, then his ring finger. “There's time." 

They’re standing at the trunk of the car some time later, watching the sun dip below the mountain ranges in the far distance. It’s quiet— a welcome calm after the past few hectic days— neither of them speaking or moving to restart Eddie’s playlist. Eddie is in Richie’s arms, his back to Richie’s chest, and there’s nowhere else they’d rather be.

Richie is stable here, in the comfortable space they’ve carved out. But, there’s fear too, in between all their layers. Fear that this incredible rush may not last, fear that Eddie may not be perceiving this in the same way.

“What’s your biggest fear?” 

Eddie waits a long time to answer, rubbing a hand over Richie’s arm. “The idea that no matter what I do, I’ll always feel lost.” 

It isn’t hard to put into words all the things Richie is afraid of, it’s just hard not to overcomplicate it and ramble needlessly until none of it makes sense. "I’m afraid of being lonely again.”

Eddie turns in the embrace, away from the sunset, and stares up at Richie with wide, earnest eyes. “Were you lonely before you met me?” 

The tears from earlier begin to creep up on Richie again, along with the lingering memory of being alone. He blinks the tears away and pulls Eddie closer.

* * *

Down a stretch of broken asphalt, in the center of a dirt lot, they find a bar. It's the only building around for half a mile in each direction, the exterior lit by a single street lamp and a flickering neon sign. Outside, there are dust-covered trucks and motorcycles with polished chrome.

It's a country bar, creaky wooden floors sprinkled with peanut shells, license plates and antlers lining the walls, and an actual jukebox in the corner. Big men with unruly beards and women with dirty cowboy boots watch them with wary eyes when they enter holding hands, but Eddie makes a beeline to the bar as if he can't feel their stares. They order a shot and a beer each to start, shouting over a woman wailing the lyrics to a country song in the corner. She has a drink in her hand, a boot propped up on a chair and the lyrics on the screen in front of her seem to fly by too fast for her to keep up.

"June Carter," Eddie chuckles against Richie's ear. 

Richie nods and raises his shot glass. Eddie taps his to Richie’s and they toss them back, both of them grimacing as they slam the shot glasses down. It's a cheap, bitter whiskey, sticking to the back of his mouth. "Are you driving us back to the hotel, or am I?"

"I'll let you be the DD this time, I guess."

"You'll let me? Ha ha," Richie deadpans.

"I'll give you the best blowjob you've ever had."

"Have I not had the best from you already? Are you holding out on me?"

Eddie winks and orders another shot for himself. He slams that one as soon as it slides across the uneven bar, turns to Richie and asks, "Are you up for karaoke?"

Their song choice isn't popular with the crowd, but that hardly matters when they’re having so much fun. " _I need your arms around me, I need to feel your touch,"_ Richie sings, and Eddie takes his hand spinning him like a ballroom dancer as he sings, " _I need your understanding, I need your love so much." _ They dance through the whole thing, with Richie stumbling over lyrics he knows by heart because he's distracted by Eddie's dramatics, a pout and a hand to his heart as he sings, " _I wonder if you even miss me." _ By the end of it, they’re falling over each other, on the verge of dissolving into a fit of laughter. 

Richie taps out and plops onto the barstool, finishing off his single beer for the night.

“One more," Eddie says, and walks across the bar to whisper a request to the old woman manning the system. He takes his place in the center of the deteriorating stage, gives Richie a nervous smile, and raises the microphone, watching him instead of the screen. 

“ _If I could be with you forever, my restless heart would never want to roam.” _

His voice is smooth and cool-toned, filling the hollow spaces in the bar and in between Richie's ribs. Richie clasps his shaky, sweaty hands together and thinks,  _ Holy shit, he’s singing to me_. It’s another one of his juvenile fantasies coming to life right before him. Adoration ripples through him, swelling in his chest.

“ _I’ve never been loved the way you love me.” _

He’s overflowing with the feeling, rushing to lift his glasses to wipe his wet eyes. Eddie sways, clutching the microphone in his hand and looking as sheepish as he did when they first met. Richie is flooded with the same abrupt want now that he felt when he saw him for the first time, the same interested buzz on his skin. He watches Eddie's growing smile, his soft eyes under the dim lights, and listens to the tremble in his voice, and sees their future together. They’re barefoot in their backyard, they’re holding hands under their dining room table, they’re kissing in their driveway at dawn-

“ _I wish I felt this way at home." _

It could be the alcohol, but Richie knows better than to blame that. It would be too easy, too convenient. He's had his tipsy flings, tiptoeing and tripping in the dark and calling it love.  _ This _ is love. It consumes him, wrapping tight around his lungs, choking him up. It makes his knees weak and his hands numb. It surges through him when Eddie finishes the song, walks over to Richie and kisses him hard, in front of everyone, ignoring the glares. Tasting him through bitter alcohol and a saccharine cherry flavor, Richie hopes and hopes and hopes that Eddie can feel it too.

* * *

Drunk Eddie is adorable, Richie decides, when he finds him curled up on the shower floor like a cat. He had gone to the restroom to 'take a leak' after they got back to the room, and as the minutes ticked on, Richie became increasingly worried that he had fallen in.

But, alas, he's fine. Just adorably passed out in a questionably stained hotel shower.

"You can't sleep here," Richie says from the door.

"Wasn't gonna," Eddie mumbles and waves vaguely in Richie's direction. "Come here, help."

Richie does, holding out his hand for Eddie to take. Eddie grabs him and Richie trips over the shower ledge, flails to keep his balance, and falls right into Eddie's lap. Eddie makes a pained noise and laughs, which only makes Richie laugh even though he's 50 percent sure he just twisted his ankle.

Rolling out from under Richie's weight, Eddie sighs. "I don't remember ever having this much fun with...whatshisface."

It jolts Richie to hear him brought up, jolts him more that Richie never learned his name, and even more that Eddie seems intent on forgetting it. "No?"

Eddie shakes his head and his smile falters. He locks his gaze on Richie's eyes, unwavering and intense. “Sometimes I feel like a bad person, moving on like this...but, something changed when I met you.” 

"If you hadn’t met me," Richie starts, knowing very well that his curiosity and need to be reaffirmed is getting the best of him, "would you have stayed with him?" 

“I don’t know, maybe.” Eddie shrugs, glancing at Richie's lips. "I haven't thought about that."

“Do you think you ever would have been happy with him?” It’s his discomfort with guilt that makes him ask this, overriding his desire to seem cool and collected. Deep down he knows the answer, that Eddie was irrevocably unhappy with his ex. But, that doesn't stop the pestering voice in the back of his head that calls him a homewrecker.

"No," Eddie answers simply, then cradles Richie's head in his hands. "I'm gonna kiss you now."

It's cramped and clumsy, but as passionate as each time Eddie licks into his mouth. Eddie urges Richie to lie on top of him, scuffing their shoes on the shower wall and bumping their elbows on the hard tile floor. When they first kissed, Richie was stuck with a want he had never felt before. He has Eddie now, literally and figuratively, but he still wants, maybe even more— deeper, better, longer. In every way.

Eddie gasps into Richie's wet mouth and leans their foreheads together, giving Richie an up close view of his dark, sleepy eyes. "What are you thinking about?" 

"You." 

"I'm right here," Eddie giggles. "Silly."

"Doesn't mean I can't think about you," Richie says, slipping a hand up to cup his cheek and the prickly stubble. "You’re my favorite person.” 

"What’s your favorite thing about me?” Eddie asks, sucking his lower lip into his mouth.

“Everything," Richie answers, flushing at his blatant honesty.

"' _Everything_.'" Eddie scoffs, but his smile grows. “Pshh.” 

“I mean that. It’s all a part of you, isn’t it?” 

“You wanna know my favorite things about you?”

They’re hushed now, leaning into each other like it’s a necessity.

"I'd love to.” 

“How you hold me, like you think I’m gonna fucking disappear into thin air if you let go. How I feel with your arms wrapped around me.” Eddie pauses and takes a breath, touching a warm hand to Richie’s check. “Your lips, your teeth, your big, beautiful smile. Your eyes and how you look at me, even when I’m not naked. You're so nice to other people. You take care of me, you care about my feelings… I love everything about you, but those are my favorites.” 

“You are the man of my dreams,” Richie tells him, and he’s never fucking meant anything more. 

“Yeah?" Eddie gasps and his eyes widen. "You dream about me?” 

Richie laughs and the sound echoes off the walls. “No, I mean I feel like I conjured you in a daydream and you just...fell into my lap. Sometimes I think that it can’t be real that I feel this good.” 

"That's-"

Richie waits. Eddie blinks at him.

"That's...what?"

“That’s-” Eddie stops again, and burps right in Richie’s face. 

As much as Richie likes him, and as much as it amuses him to see that Eddie thinks it’s  _ hilarious, _ it’s actually pretty gross. “Alright, time for bed.”

Eddie is light, but it takes more effort than it should to carry him to the bed. He’s dead weight, except for his head tucked into Richie’s neck, his tongue licking up the back of Richie’s ear. It tickles more than it turns him on, and Eddie absolutely knows that.

After tugging off Eddie’s shoes and jeans and pulling a sheet over him, Richie gets undressed and climbs in next to him, sitting up against the pillows with his journal in his lap.

"I was lonely too,” Eddie mutters, half asleep. His eyes are closed, his face smushed in the pillows. "Before I met you, I was so fucking lonely."

_ July 29th- Eddie Kaspbrak is the love of my life. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can have a little calm before the storm, as a treat.  
>    
> [The song they dance to in the desert](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZxbDnKsb3uE)  
> [Eddie's favorite song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fhpK31v5CZc)  
> [Richie's favorite song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6e-LF21yFWM)  
> [Eddie's song for Richie.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6NyFXqAShlw)  
>    
> [twitter, aka shitpost central](https://twitter.com/curiousair)


	6. I wanna be your easter bunny, I wanna be your christmas tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title credit- be mine, by R.E.M.

They're in Nevada, just outside of Pahrump according to the highway signs. It’s hotter than Mojave, a sweltering, dry heat that has Richie sweating down to his asscrack. In what is either a display of stubbornness or masochism, Eddie has been suffering the heat in his cowboy hat since Baker, where they stopped and attempted to get a clear picture in front of the giant thermometer. 

"Hey, cowboy!"

Richie looks up from the gas pump and Eddie is approaching the car carrying an armful of snacks. Behind him, there’s a man standing near the door of the shop, one hand cupped around his mouth to call out to Eddie again. “Where you headed?”

Eddie stops for approximately half a second, throwing a disgusted look over his shoulder. "East."

The man jogs behind Eddie, right on his heels, and catches him by the elbow. "Didn't the cowboys go west?"

Richie, watching from just a few feet away, sees the grin spread across Eddie’s face. Eddie nods his head towards the car. "Do you wanna meet my boyfriend?"

The man blinks, looks at Richie and smiles, giving him a once over. "Hi, boyfriend. I'm Stan."

“Richie.”

Stan is conventionally handsome—short, dark curly hair, light blue eyes, slightly sun-weathered skin, and an unshaven face.

“Richie. The cowboy’s boyfriend.” Stan shoves both his hands into his back pockets, conveniently flexing his biceps, and turns to Eddie. “And you, the cowboy. What’s your name?”

Eddie circles the car, opens the passenger's side door and dumps the snacks on the seat. He holds out his hand for Stan to shake. “Eddie.” 

Stan holds Eddie’s hand in his for a second too long, amusement dancing across his features. “Nice to meet you, Eddie.”

Richie isn't a jealous person, but… there's more to that thought but he can't put it together because the longer he looks at Stan, the more attractive he gets. Running his fingers through his hair in slow motion, wetting his lower lip with a quick swipe of his tongue, standing with his chest out with an air of confidence that says ‘I know exactly what I look like.’ Idly, standing stupidly with the gas pump still in his hand, Richie wonders if Eddie is watching Stan and thinking the same. He shoves the gas pump back in its holder and decides, ‘ _No, I am not jealous of this stranger who just cat-called the love of my life_.’ Because he definitely isn’t. It isn’t jealousy that’s causing Richie's face to prickle with warmth. Stan is _hot_ , and he knows it and he knows that Richie knows it.

“So, east, huh? Any chance you’re passing through Las Vegas?” Stan asks, rocking back on his heels. He flicks his gaze to Richie, catching his eye, and his smile softens.

The warmth in Richie’s cheeks spreads to his chest and blossoms into a distinctly panicked feeling that he recognizes as nerves. 

_Oh._

He’s doing what he always does, falling face first into infatuation with any man that sparks his interest for more than a millisecond. Men at the grocery store, groping fruit with nimble fingers. Men who fix cars, doe-eyed with a swipe of motor oil on their cheek. Men who flirt with his boyfriend, wearing t-shirts stuck to their body with sweat. It’ll pass, like it usually does. But as it is, this is sort of an inconvenience. And as much as he’s interested in the low thrum of excitement that Eddie, his _boyfriend_ , is so wanted, it’s still not ideal that he’s watching the flex of this stranger’s biceps.

Richie tears his eyes away and looks at Eddie instead. Eddie shrugs, turns back to Stan and his “Yes” drowns out Richie’s “Maybe.”

“Um, yeah,” Richie decides, and wipes his clammy palms on his jeans. “I guess we’re going to Vegas. Do you need a lift?”

“Yeah, that would be sick.” Stan sticks his hand in his front pocket. “I don’t have much money, but-”

Richie waves him off. “You don’t need to pay us."

Stan’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “You sure?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. Hop in,” Eddie answers, and slaps the roof of the car before moving the snacks aside and climbing in.

Stan flashes Richie grin and jogs back to the front of the shop to pick up a duffle bag. "You two are fucking _saints_ ," he says, sliding into the backseat.

Richie closes the fuel tank cover and gets in last, slipping his phone out of his pocket. He enters their destination, scrolling through for the best route.

"How far do we have to go?" Eddie asks, fiddling with the radio.

Richie starts the car and pulls out onto the road. “63.4 miles. So, about an hour.”

"I could have told you that without GPS, you know." Stan says, then reaches around the headrest to tap Eddie’s shoulder. “Shit, I love this song. Turn it up.”

"Eddie is both directionally challenged and reckless," Richie explains fondly, as Pink Floyd blares through the speakers. "It's why I'm driving."

“I do just fine, thank you.” Eddie rolls his eyes and attempts to suppress his smile. He turns and glances over his shoulder. “Richie is driving because I needed a break and he’s a big sweetheart.”

From the backseat, Stan comments, “Richie sounds like a good boyfriend.”

“He _is_ a good boyfriend.” Eddie strokes his knuckles over the inside of Richie’s arm, coaxing chills with ease. "So, why Vegas?"

Stan sighs and Richie catches his devilish grin in the rearview mirror. "Same as everyone else. Good ol' escapism. Sex, drugs, and copious amounts of alcohol."

"Now you're speaking my language." Eddie digs out a pack of gummy bears from where it's wedged between his seat and the center console. "Do you smoke weed?"

Stan chuckles, dryly. "Look me in my eyes and ask me again if I smoke weed."

Eddie turns in his seat to look at him and they both burst into laughter. “Just weed, or?”

“I don’t fuck with pills,” Stan says. “But I’ve been known to fuck around with shrooms or acid if I can find someone who’s selling.”

“Hmm,” Eddie chews a handful of gummy bears. “Where are you from?”

“LA.”

“Oh, cool. Us too,” Eddie says. “That’s funny. I worked with like three people who sold shrooms and my former apartment manager constantly offered me acid. Who are you associating with in LA that doesn’t know where to find drugs?”

“The wrong people, apparently,” Stan drones. 

“What made you leave?” Richie asks. He keeps his eyes ahead on the road, the backs of his hands already burning from the harsh sun shining through the window. “I mean, if it isn’t too personal.”

“Nah, it’s not anything like that. I was feeling too tied down in LA. My girlfriend and I are having problems. You know how it is. Or, maybe you don’t. Nevermind.” Stan laughs through his nose, a short huff. “So, how long have you guys been together?” 

“A few weeks,” Richie answers, except at the same time, Eddie says, “A few months.”

Eddie chuckles and shakes his head. "Well, okay, it's been like a week officially.”

“The condensed version is that I cuddle people for a living and Eddie booked sessions with me, which is how we met. I had a crush, but he was with someone else-”

“And I was into Richie from the moment I saw him, so I ended things with the other guy after a little while-”

 _The other guy._ Richie still can’t decide if it’s better or worse that Eddie never says his name. Would it weigh on Richie any less if he had a name to put to the faceless man he essentially fucked over?

“It wasn’t going well anyway,” Richie adds. “So, it isn’t like- you know…”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, understanding. “So, I ended things and Richie and I decided to leave town within an hour of hooking up for the first time."

"Just like that?” Stan asks, sounding mildly amused. “That’s kind of fucking punk rock, actually."

"I know it's kind of crazy-"

"No, fuck that," Stan says. His hand comes through the small space between the seat and the door to land on Richie’s shoulder. "You don't have to justify your relationship to anyone. It doesn’t matter how it started or how long it's been, it doesn’t make it any less valid. If you’re happy, you’re happy.”

A wave of emotion sneaks up on Richie, choking him up a little. Holding in tears, even the joyous ones, makes him liable to cry at the drop of a hat. Unfortunately, he’s been wanting to cry since Eddie sang to him in front of a group of suspected homophobes and maybe before then, as they laid in bed and danced around the word ‘fate.’ 

Next to him, Eddie puts his feet up on the dashboard and holds a gummy bear up to Richie’s lips. Richie takes it, scraping his teeth lightly over Eddie’s fingers.

“You guys are cute,” Stan coos. “I’m almost jealous.”

During the drive, Stan speaks somewhat morosely about his life in LA, sharing stories about deadend jobs and bad friends. He’s unabashedly open, labeling himself as a perpetual couch surfer and a ‘drifter.’ His easy banter with Eddie fills the car—effortless jokes, playful arguments about music, and anecdotes about their similar pasts.

As Stan speaks, Richie glances up periodically to look at him in the rearview mirror, catching him staring at Eddie with a familiar desire behind his eyes each time. Richie can feel it, heavy between them like each of them is waiting for the other to shatter the tension. Stan’s eyes trace Eddie’s features, his lips twitching into a smile every time Eddie’s do the same. 

It isn’t impossible that Stan feels for Eddie what Richie feels for him. They've touched after all. And, frankly, that's all it took for Richie.

When they’re just outside of Vegas, Stan lets both windows down and Richie turns the AC off. The hot wind whips through his hair and Eddie finally takes his hat off, ruffling his fingers through his matted tresses. 

Stan shouts over the whoosh of wind. “Hey, can I borrow a lighter?” 

Eddie retrieves a lighter from the cubby on the dashboard and passes it over the seat. Out of the corner of his eye, Richie sees Stan’s hand fully grasp Eddie’s to slip the lighter out of his palm. 

Richie follows the curl of Stan’s fingers over Eddie’s palm and wonders, ‘ _Can he touch Eddie like I can?’_ He forces his eyes back on the road, the endless stretch of beige ahead of him. 

* * *

The last time Richie visited Vegas, he was stumbling through the liminal space between 21 and being a 'real adult.' A college dropout with no job, all he had to his name was debt and a rapidly filling blackbook of failed relationships. He had gone with a friend he desperately wanted more from, spending the entire 3 day weekend binge drinking and hoping the guy would make a move. The trip ended with Richie in the ER, after he found out the hard way that 107 degree weather, alcohol poisoning, and unrequited love just don’t mix.

Still, the most important thing he took from that trip is that it is shockingly easy and cheap to get drunk in Downtown Vegas. Stan says as much, whooping excitedly as Richie makes his way through the city traffic.

They arrive at Fremont Street at 6, check into their suite at The D at 6:30 to freshen up after the drive, and by 7:00 they’re each one drink in and Eddie is slamming his hand on the counter to get the bartender’s attention. By 8, all three of them are dancing under the neon lights to a Rolling Stones cover band. 

Richie is overwhelmed in the most pleasant way— the out of tune guitar, the flashing lights above and around him making stars dance in his vision, and the heat of the late-summer night add to the steady buzz of inebriation. Eddie’s sweat-damp body is close, his lips to Richie’s ear, his breath hot and words dizzying. “I’m hard,” he whispers, pressed up against Richie's thigh like a demand. “Do you feel that?” Richie turns his head to kiss him, but stops when he locks eyes with Stan. He’s been staring all night, his gaze following the drag of Eddie’s hand over Richie’s chest, the trail of kisses Eddie leaves over the column of Richie’s neck, Eddie's hands squeezing Richie's ass. It’s more intriguing than uncomfortable, which only fuels Richie’s impulsive thoughts about getting his hands around Stan’s biceps.

The hours pass in a blur of raucous laughter, stolen kisses, and sidelong glances, and they find themselves in another crowded bar area, pressed too close together. 

“And then, he fucking asks Richie to fuck his wife while he watches. I was _right there_ , dude. It felt like an acid trip.” Eddie is shouting over the music, his hand in Richie’s back pocket. Stan is at Richie’s other side, interjecting with the appropriate responses. “That’s wild as fuck man. Fucking rich people, man.”

“I was stabbed,” Richie adds, suddenly remembering the aching scar on his arm. He lifts the edge of his sleeve, examining the stitches and Stan leans in to look.

“Damn, dude.” Stan strokes the pad of his thumb over the scar, looking up at Richie through his lashes, angelic and devilish all at once. “Are you alright?” 

Richie nods, shying away from Stan’s intense stare and gentle touch, and focuses his attention on Eddie, who’s flagging down the bartender.

He orders another round of shots, puts the entire rim of the little plastic cup in his mouth, and throws his arms around Richie’s shoulders. Richie stumbles back, a taller man behind him the only thing keeping him upright. He’s wide-eyed and smiling the best he can with a shot glass in his mouth, something mischievous in his expression. Stan's voice weaves through the noise. “Can I get in on this hug?” 

Eddie tips his head back, swallows the shot, and spits out the cup, alcohol dripping down his chin. “Of course, dude!” He holds out an arm to make space for Stan to step in, and they wrestle a bit to find the right position of their arms. They huddle together and look at each other, the awkward, somewhat clumsy nature of a threeway hug making them giggle. Then, Richie feels Stans fingers dipping under the hem of his t-shirt. Richie stops laughing then, distracted by Stan’s rough fingertips. Richie looks at them, Eddie's face is pinched with laughter, but Stan has the best poker face Richie has ever seen. Inhibition lowered and relying heavily on the excuse that he’s a handsy drunk, Richie slots his hand against the taut muscle on Stan’s side. His ribs rise and fall under Richie’s palm, raw energy seeping out of him, causing the sudden wave of nerves to return. Stan sighs through parted lips, his muscles relaxing, and Richie jerks his head away, stepping out of the hug. _Oh fuck, oh fuck-_ Richie tears away from Eddie’s side and orders another shot.

Sometime around 9:30, which Richie can barely read through his blurred vision and smudged phone screen, Eddie drops himself into Richie’s lap.

“I think Stan just propositioned me.” 

"Huh?" Richie's head is heavy, his body feels like it’s moving through molasses. "You think?" 

Eddie nods, teetering on Richie’s thighs. The barstool has uneven legs, and likely isn’t strong enough to hold two people. "It was like when someone is asking you something and they’re saying it in, like, a joking way but you know they’re serious.” 

“What did he say?” Richie attempts to look at him, and Eddie shifts to make it easier, nearly falling backwards. 

“He said, um…” Eddie squints, as if he’s forgotten his train of thought. “‘Hey, do you guys ever do the open relationship thing?’” 

Richie blinks, trying to focus his vision. “What did you say?” 

“What do you think, Richie? I told him to fuck off. He can look all he wants but I’m yours, baby.” 

There's no stopping the mental image of Eddie and Stan together, it conjures itself up in Richie’s brain along his swimming thoughts without even being prompted. Richie can’t say he’s opposed to the hazy image of Eddie and Stan in the middle of the hotel bed, shirtless, groping, panting, and-

Richie doesn't realize how quiet he's gone until Eddie's wet lips are on his ear, slurring, “Are you upset?” 

He shakes his head. “What do you think about him?” 

“Like, in what way?” 

“Do you think he’s attractive?” 

“Well, I have eyes, Richie," Eddie says plainly, then breaks into a grin at Richie’s surprised laugh. “What? I’m not going to lie to you.” 

Stan comes back from the restroom and other than being a bit more red-faced, he looks as fresh as he did when they arrived. “Alright, lovebirds, where to next?” 

“Hotel?” Richie suggests. It’s early, but there’s a preemptive hangover pounding at his temples.

"Aww come on, old man," Stan teases. "Stay out with us." 

_Us_ , as if Richie and Eddie aren't attached at the hip. As if Eddie would leave Richie all alone in the hotel to hang out with Stan. They may have a similar past and a slew of things in common, but Eddie is _Richie's_ , and Eddie knows that just as well.

"My alcohol tolerance isn't as high as it was when I was 25, alright?” Richie chuckles and rubs at his eyes under his glasses. “If I drink as much as you two, I'll die probably." 

"I go where Richie goes," Eddie says, and Richie laughs because, really, it's the other way around. "You can come smoke with us if you want." 

In the elevator ride up to their suite, Eddie attacks Richie with a kiss, pinning him in the corner as if he had any intention to run. Stan watches them the same way, his hands shifting in his pockets and his eyes dark. In the hallway, they trip over each other’s feet in an impromptu race to the door and when Richie is fumbling with the keycard, he sees Stan’s hand on Eddie’s hip to steady him. Eddie makes a small move to get away, but stops himself short when he notices Richie looking. He tilts his head, questioning, his hand hovering over Stan’s, and all the words dry up in Richie’s mouth before he can say them. ‘ _It wouldn’t be the worst thing,’_ he wants to say. _‘We could see what happens.’_ The door clicks open and they stumble into the room, passing the neat living room and bar area to enter the private bedroom. Richie falls onto the bed and Eddie reaches for him, dropping onto the mattress with Stan trailing behind him. He fits himself between them, lying flat on his back as Richie searches for a lighter and the bent pre-roll in his pocket.

“I don’t think this is a smoking room,” Eddie comments belatedly. He brings the joint to his lips, takes a puff, and laughs abruptly, releasing more smoke towards the ceiling. “Fuck, they’re gonna fine me.”

Stan plucks the joint from Eddie’s fingers, shrugs, says “Oh well,” and passes it to Richie. 

Eddie takes the last hit from the joint and holds it, setting the roach on one of the bedside tables. He takes Richie’s hand and tugs him so they’re both over Stan’s chest. Then, because he’s even _more_ of an exhibitionist than Richie thought, he leans in for a kiss, exhaling smoke into Richie’s mouth. Distantly, through his clouded thoughts, Richie hears Stan whisper something along the lines of _holy shit_. Something shifts then, and not just that they're all cross-faded. Stan breaks the silence by looking at Richie and saying easily, like he's complimenting someone's shoes: "Your boyfriend is sexy." 

"Thank you," Eddie mumbles, flicking his gaze to Richie. He's amused, but there's a grit in his voice Richie recognizes.

It may not seem like it, considering the choices he’s made, but Richie isn’t too big on gambling. He doesn't like throwing away money, chances, or opportunities in favor of the faint possibility of something more. The situation unfolding before him is a gamble with pretty fucking high stakes and the realization stuns him. 

"No, you don't understand." Stan ghosts the back of his hand over Eddie's belly, stopping at his waistband. His voice is lower now, rumbling in his throat. "You're sexy as fuck." 

Eddie's brows furrow and he bites back a smile. "What are you doing?" 

"Nothing, if you don't want me to," Stan says, and doesn't even glance at Richie when he adds, "Or if he doesn't." 

Eddie catches Stan's wrist and looks at Richie again, raising an eyebrow. 

Richie, his heart racing and his mouth dry for more than one reason, doesn't say no. 

Stan cups a hand behind Eddie's neck and kisses him, immediately deep and hungry. Eddie breaks the kiss first, once again looking up at Richie, sheepish this time. Richie twists his fingers in Eddie's hair, loving how easy his expression changes from unsure to placid. 

"And you," Stan says, his hand sneaking up Richie's thigh. "Also super hot.” 

Kissing Stan is...different, Richie decides after a few seconds. He’s hot and has a skilled tongue, swirling shallowly at first before diving deeper, and Richie's dick reacts accordingly. But, there's nothing more to it than that. If anything, the phantom sensation of Eddie watching is what gives Richie goosebumps.

When Richie comes up for air, Eddie's hand is flat on Stan's chest. Richie slips his along Stan's side to lace his fingers with Eddie's and together, they ruck Stan's shirt up to reveal toned, pale abs. Stan, not seeming to mind that they're staring at him like a piece of meat, takes Eddie's hand and guides it up to lay against the swell of his pecs.

Richie kisses Stan again, filthier, putting on a show, to which Eddie responds with a low “fuck," then Richie pulls away, breathless, muttering, "Kiss him now." Eddie's eyes darken to an impossible shade of black and he's dipping his head to meet Stan in a kiss, not having to be told twice. Stan is eager, his hands on either side of Eddie's face, and Richie nudges him gently, urging him to slow down. "Come here," Eddie mumbles into the kiss, reaching blindly for Richie’s hand. Richie leans in and Eddie tilts his head to kiss the side of Stan's mouth, making room for Richie. It's equal amounts disgusting and hot- the three of them swapping spit, tangling tongues, and panting more than anything else. 

Stan unzips his fly and Eddie’s hand follows first, bringing Richie’s with it. Hissing at the sensation of two hands on his dick, Stan’s hips arch off the bed and words start tumbling out of his mouth, all the filthy things he wants to do to Eddie, and the things he wants Richie to do to him. Eddie sits up halfway and sticks three fingers into Stan’s mouth, effectively shutting him up. Richie moans at the sight, kissing up Stan’s neck to suck his earlobe. After a minute, Stan goes pliant and Richie delights in this, knowing that Eddie isn’t the person Stan thinks he is, not some minx or twink to manhandle and control. 

Their hands knock against each other over the hard, slick length of Stan’s dick and they rut against his thighs, kissing sloppily over his chest. All resolve is shattered, there’s no hesitation or shyness about how they grope and give in to pure, feral want. 

Something else shifts when Stan sits up and tugs Eddie’s shirt off in one swift movement, hands roaming over the tattoos. Eddie sits up as well, crawling to the middle of the bed to take off Richie’s shirt and Richie does the same to Stan, though not quite as smooth. When they’re all shirtless with Eddie sandwiched in the middle— Stan behind him and Richie in the front—Richie feels, through the thrill of it all, a single pang of jealousy. It’s small, but it’s there, forcing him to wonder if this is easy for Eddie. And if it is, is it as easy and thrilling with Richie? Is Richie’s touch as good as he’s made himself believe? Or is just another touch in the sea of physical affection he’s received?

With one hand digging its fingertips into Eddie’s hip, Stan unzips Eddie’s fly and pulls him out of his boxers, wasting no time stroking the precum up and down his leaking dick. Eddie melts into Stan’s embrace but keeps his half-lidded gaze on Richie. For a moment, Richie watches, dazed as one of his newer, less vanilla fantasies comes to life before his eyes. Eddie brings him back to the present, urging him closer for a kiss. Richie fumbles with his belt and his zipper to finally free his aching hard-on, knocks Stan’s hand away and wraps his hand around both their dicks the best he can. He bucks himself into his fist, sliding his wet dick against Eddie's. 

They’re messy and panting, moaning wantonly and dirty. It fills the small space, along with the mix of their scents, smoky, musky, the sharpness of fresh sweat. Stan grinds against Eddie, pushing him forward into Richie’s chest, and the first time Eddie ignores it, too focused on Richie. The second time, Eddie shoves him back, something incomprehensible on his lips. 

"Look at me, baby,” Richie tells him, and drags his teeth over Eddie kiss-swollen lower lip. Eddie opens his eyes a bit more, dark and glazed over. "Yeah?" 

"Nothing,” Richie says, and kisses him again. “I just like when you look at me." 

Eddie spreads his fingers over Richie’s shoulder blades, simultaneously bringing him closer and leaning away from where Stan attempts to suck a bruise into the crook of his neck. Richie leans back, sitting on his heels and Eddie straddles his lap, sending both of them backwards. Richie pulls Eddie on top of him and rolls them over, rutting his dick against the crease of Eddie’s hip. The rough denim and jagged zipper of Eddie’s jeans bites at Richie’s skin, so after a few messy thrusts, he gets up to take his clothes off. The fact that Stan seems to have disappeared into thin air isn’t as important as getting Eddie naked. He strips Eddie somewhat roughly, tugging his jeans and boxers off in one go, sucking his toes into his mouth as an apology. Eddie laughs, narrowly avoiding kicking Richie in the face. Richie wraps Eddie’s legs around him, falls forward, and rolls his hips, feeling Eddie’s hot and wet on his belly. 

"Are you going soft?" Richie asks breathlessly, slowing his movements. 

"Yeah, fuck- I'm sorry, let me-” 

“Was it the foot thing? Sorry-” 

Eddie shakes his head, a smile spreading across his face. “No, it’s fine. Tell me something dirty." 

"Uhhh.” Richie frowns, looking down at Eddie’s expectant expression. “Honestly, I just thought about your toes in my mouth again." At that, they both burst into laughter and then Richie is going soft too. 

Eddie wraps his arms around Richie’s back and holds him still. “Rain check?” Richie agrees reluctantly, starting to sit up. Eddie keeps him there, holding tighter and Richie relaxes, resting his face in Eddie’s damp neck and closes his eyes.

Richie wakes up feeling like a fucking elephant sat on his head. For once, Eddie isn't awake before him. He opens his mouth to speak and smacks his lips, tasting the last few hours— alcohol, weed, secondhand cigarette breath, and a stranger's spit. "Oh, ew." 

Eddie pries his eyes open, looks at Richie and says, "My ass is cold." Sure enough, the sheet didn't quite make it all the way up his body. His bare ass is on display for Richie to smooth a hand over. Eddie buries his head in a pillow. "Jesus christ, I think I'm still drunk." 

“That was an interesting night,” Richie mutters, attempting to blink away his headache. Surprisingly, it isn’t as dreadful as he was expecting. Still, he wants to lie in bed and not move for the foreseeable future. 

Eddie cranes his neck to look around the room. “Where did Stan go?” 

“I think he excused himself when we left him out of the threesome.”

Licking his lips, Eddie hums. "I'm hungry."

"Uhh, there's a cheap steakhouse open all night," Richie says. "Or we can just get tacos and come back here and eat half naked on these dirty sheets."

Eddie scoots over in bed and kisses Richie’s nose. "Did I ever tell you that you're my dream man too?"

After a quick shower, they meander downstairs for food. As promised, they come back to their empty suite, strip down, and climb back into bed with their tacos. 

"Stan is cool," Eddie says conversationally, starting on his third taco.

"Yeah, he's cool," Richie agrees, too tired for any other descriptors. "He certainly likes you a lot."

Eddie rolls his eyes and says, mouth full, "Something like that."

"I can't blame him."

"I like that you aren’t jealous-" Eddie starts. “Or, like, weird about other men being attracted to me.”

"I got a _little_ jealous. For maybe five seconds,” Richie admits, and waits a second before continuing. “But, I think I was mostly distracted by how hot he is."

"Fuck, yeah, he’s so hot it’s kind of stupid." Eddie frowns, as if he’s truly upset about it, then he drops his gaze to the sheets between them and smiles. "But, what I mean is that you trusted me. I know I've said it before but you’re super _nice_ and it's...refreshing."

"Your ex wasn't nice to you," Richie says, knowing it’s the truth. Just like he knew Eddie was never happy with his ex, Richie knows that he treats Eddie better than any other man did. It’s a somewhat selfish thought, needling its way into his brain and embedding itself in with the memory of Eddie whispering to him that first night, ‘ _You make me feel so good… I’ve never felt like this before.’_

“He was just like the rest of my exes,” Eddie says, and it isn’t sad so much as it is a simple observation. He has brown eyes, tattoos, and all of his exes sucked. But, that doesn’t mean feelings don’t linger. There are men from Richie’s past he still has fleeting thoughts about, years later. 

Richie asks, before he loses his nerve: “Do you still love him?”

Eddie shrugs a shoulder, his eyes on Richie's legs. “Sometimes.” 

Richie is nervous suddenly, the words on the tip of his tongue making their way out whether he likes it or not. “Do you love me?” 

“I-” Eddie freezes his hand on Richie's thigh, and looks up at him, exhaling something that suspiciously sounds like a sigh of relief. “I- yeah, I think so.” 

Involuntarily, Richie brings his hand to his heart, as if it could quell the palpitations. “I love you too.” 

Eddie grins and launches himself across the bed and into Richie’s lap, kissing him hard enough to knock him over. Kissing him earnestly and slowly, kissing him with laughter on his lips, kissing him as if it’s his intention to breathe him in and swallow him whole. 

_July 30th? 31st?- Apparently kissing another man and having an (almost) threesome is the catalyst for love confessions._

* * *

The Fountains of Bellagio are more underwhelming than Richie remembered. He remembers thinking they were romantic when he was here last, probably because his most recurring daydream that weekend consisted of his depressingly platonic friend kissing him in front of the intricate water display. "I've seen some of these places in movies," Eddie says, watching the lighted water. It’s just them two, having left Stan to his own devices, stopping at all the popular landmarks on the strip, wanting to make Eddie’s first Vegas trip worthwhile. They’re buzzed, agreeing to spare their livers and wallets after the past 48 hours spending money on cocktails for strangers, tacky souvenirs, and overpriced tourist attractions. Richie has noticed, with a reoccurring swoop of affection, that all night Eddie's eyes have been lighting up the most when they're looking at each other.

"What do you think?" Richie asks, tugging Eddie’s hand.

"It's cool," Eddie mumbles, but must be just as uninterested because he looks down at Richie's feet and says, "Oh, your shoe is coming untied." 

Before Richie can do it, Eddie stoops down and scoots Richie's foot up so he can tighten the laces.

"Thank you," Richie says. It's the kind of tooth-rotting sweetness he not-so-secretly loves. Eddie looks up at him, beaming, and Richie has to look away. He loves Eddie so much he could vibrate out of his skin, and each time Eddie fixes his beautiful brown eyes on him, it's as if he feels the sudden rush of falling in love all over again. 

Eddie moves on to the other shoe, unnecessarily tightening those laces too. Someone passes them and says, "Aww, cute!" and Richie remembers they aren't alone. There are too many people around and a loud pop song playing from a speaker Richie can't locate. He wonders what others think, wonders if he and Eddie stand out in sin city among the sea of capitalism, freedom and gaudy aesthetics, wonders if people can see the love radiating off of them.

"Hey, Richie."

Richie looks down and loses his breath. The wind is forced out of him and he's weak in the knees like he was literally swept off his feet and knocked on his ass.

"Eddie…" Richie doesn't know what to say beyond that. All he knows is somehow his heart is simultaneously in his stomach and in his throat, his chest impossibly full with love and something akin to exhilaration.

And Eddie waits on one knee, with a patient smile and flushed cheeks, holding the simple gold band between his fingers.

“Where’d you get a ring?" Richie asks, his voice wavering. "Is it…?” 

“What?" Eddie frowns, confused, and shakes his head. "Oh, god no. It's  _yours._ "

"Mine?" Richie swallows thickly. "Like, you bought for me because you want to…?"

Eddie nods, and his shoulders rise with a deep breath. "Yeah. I, um, bought this when we met.” 

Richie might lose his fucking mind. If he thought he was in deep before, he's really in it now. It chokes him up and he lets it, happily willing to let it suffocate him. “You- what?”

“Like the day after we met in the park," Eddie confesses, chewing his lip. He's restless now, hope behind his eyes. "I know it's insane considering my  _ situation _ but… it felt right.” 

“Oh my fucking god," is all Richie can come up with in response. 

“So?” 

“You are insane, and I love you.” Richie pulls Eddie to his feet, and brings him close. In the most graceful way he can, which isn't very graceful at all, he crouches a bit, grips Eddie behind the thighs and scoops him up into his arms. Eddie holds on tight, leaning in for a kiss. Richie swallows the lump in his throat, and says, “Let’s get married.” 

Eddie glances at the fountains, the small crowd of people watching them, and the street next to them. "Here?" 

"Here," Richie says.

Eddie kisses him again, sweeter and slower. "We need to get a marriage license." 

"So we'll get one." 

“Tonight?” 

Richie lowers him to his feet, giving him another kiss. “Tonight.” 

There's a short spattering of applause when Eddie puts the ring on Richie's finger. It's nearly too tight, but Richie would lose a finger over it any day. Ten minutes later, after some frantic, giggly internet searches, they’re in an Uber on their way to the marriage license bureau.

Richie holds his left hand up between them, shifting it to see the Vegas lights reflect on his ring. "So I'd be Richie Kaspbrak?" 

"Eddie Tozier?" Eddie takes his hand, drops his head to Richie's shoulder. "Hm, we could hyphenate?" 

“Richie Tozier-Kaspbrak…" Richie hums, turning the name over in his mind. “Richie Kaspbrak-Tozier... I can’t decide. You pick.” 

With neon pink and yellow shining through the windows and in his eyes, Eddie says, “Eddie and Richie Kaspbrak-Tozier.”

* * *

It isn't how Richie had imagined his wedding day. They’re in a small, sparsely decorated room at the appropriately named Vegas Weddings, right across the street from where they got their marriage license last night. Stan is sitting in one of ten chairs, hungover but seemingly stoked about being their single witness. The officiant, an older man who they met ten minutes ago, is standing behind their clasped hands. There's nothing spectacular or inherently magical about the environment, nothing like Richie’s flowery fantasies of white arches and clean, pressed suits, but he’s marrying the love of his life and that’s more than he ever could have imagined.

Last night, Richie stayed awake the way he had on Christmas Eve when he was a kid, too wired with anticipation to close his eyes. Except there was a breath of fear beneath his excitement. Eddie has been engaged before— he's been in a place where he wanted to commit to someone for the rest of his life. Richie laid awake, feeling the rise and fall of Eddie’s chest under his hand, wondering if Eddie had always known, deep down, that he would change his mind and leave his ex for someone else. Maybe this was the same fear he felt, and all his other doubts about his relationship only exacerbated it until it suffocated him. Soon after falling asleep, Richie woke with his stomach in knots. Then Eddie turned over in bed to kiss him, and all his fears dissipated. 

His heart is even fuller now, crowding his chest, brought on by Eddie’s tender touch. He intertwines their fingers, and there's a current connecting them, their constant exchange of energy even stronger than usual. Something ignites inside Richie when Eddie touches him, and when Richie reciprocates the touch, Eddie softens and his hands tremble a little less. Richie could stay here forever, pleasantly dizzy, letting it flow between them, knowing that they have years and years of this ahead of them.

The ceremony is short and sweet, fitting for their relationship. Maybe someday they'll have a proper wedding, even though it'd likely only be marginally bigger than this. Maybe they'll wear suits instead of dirty sneakers, jeans, and thrifted bowling shirts with hot pink boutonnieres, and Richie will have a better haircut, and his mom will be there, crying in the front row. Maybe there'll be flowers, and music- 

Someday. But as of now, it’s perfect. If all the chaos is what led them here, it’s worth it. Richie would do it all again if it means he could have Eddie holding Richie’s palm to his chest to feel his pulse, silently chanting  _ here, here, here _ as if Richie could reach right through his breastplate and cradle his still beating heart. They’re at yet another precipice, and the opportunity to see Eddie's kind, understated smile and his warm, fond eyes for the rest of his life is at the bottom. Richie is ready to jump, and figures he has been since the moment they locked eyes.

“I never had the most positive feelings about marriage. But, then I met you.”

_ But, then I met you_. Richie wants to tattoo the words behind his eyelids, melt them down and inject them into his veins.

"The short time I've had with you so far has been amazing,” Eddie continues, gripping Richie’s hand tighter. “I’m yours for as long as you’ll have me." 

"I love you so much, and I feel so lucky that I have the opportunity to love you. You excite me in a way I’ve never felt before and I-" Tears prick at Richie’s eyes and he lets them fall, chuckling to cover the choked little noise that comes out when he tries to speak. “You just make me feel really good.”

Eddie smiles wider at him and pulls him into a kiss before he’s supposed to, letting the officiant drone on in the background as Richie is enveloped by Eddie and his intoxicating warmth. Stan claps, the photographer in the corner takes the last of their nine photos, and generic wedding music plays. As they leave the room hand in hand, Richie feels like he’s being carried out on a cloud.

“Can I keep this?” Stan asks, of the single red rose meant to represent a bouquet.

“If you want to be a bride,” Eddie says. 

“I could be a bride,” Stan mutters, patting the rose against his cheek.

They stop in the lobby, letting a group of women in matching blue dresses pass them to follow the sounds of loud chatter and laughter coming from upstairs. Eddie looks at Richie, reminiscent of their first night together just eight days ago, and says, "Let's go to that party.”

The reception is in full swing, making it easy for them to slip in relatively unnoticed. The music is loud, the drinks are flowing, and Richie sort of floats around and takes it all in. Eddie tugs him onto the dancefloor, weaving through the group of bridesmaids. Richie is useless during their unofficial first dance, too distracted by Eddie’s wild laugh, but he’s too happy to care about being embarrassed. A lively, joyous energy fills the room and eventually, Eddie breaks away to find a drink. On the way to the makeshift bar, Eddie gets swept up in a dance with the bride and Richie finds an empty seat, still stunned, touching his ring to his lips.

Stan sits down next to him, offering him a plastic cup filled halfway with pink liquid.

Richie accepts it, taking a sniff. Vodka, champagne, and cherry syrup. "Thanks."

Stan watches the dance floor, sipping his drink. The rose is clipped to his t-shirt now, hanging limply off his chest. “I love love, man.”

“Me too.” Richie stares into his cup, swirling the liquid to see it fizz. “Hey, um, sorry about pushing you out of the threesome.” 

“No big deal.” Stan shrugs, takes another drink. “There’s no room for me in your love nest, it’s all good.” 

Richie looks at him, matching his amused grin. “If it’s any consolation, you’re a good kisser.” 

Stan brings a hand to his heart, opening his mouth in a wordless ‘Aww.’ “Shit, thanks man.” 

“You’re welcome.” In front of them a younger couple sways slowly to an uptempo song, in their own world. “You mentioned before that you have a girlfriend.” 

“Yeah. I’m an asshole, I know,” Stan says, chewing the inside of his cheek. “She might know it too…I do love her though.” 

Richie watches Stan’s expression, noticing his jaw clench. “Why aren’t you with her?” 

“She’s pregnant,” Stan grits out, then squeezes his eyes shut and sighs. “I’m fully aware that makes me look like a piece of shit. I know, I know-”

“You’re scared,” Richie says.

“Shitless. I don’t know how to be a fucking dad.” 

“No one does their first time.” 

Stan sighs again, less resigned, and nods in agreement. “You and Eddie gonna have kids?” 

Richie scans the room until his eyes land on Eddie, who happens to me talking with the group of bridesmaids, grinning and pointing right at him. “It’s too soon to tell. We might have to work out our childhood trauma first.” 

“Good luck.” Stan chuckles, and both of them watch as Eddie approaches. “He’s a catch, you know.” 

“I know,” Richie says, glowing a bit as Eddie drops into his lap.

“Hey husband.” Eddie kisses his cheek and comes in close to whisper in his ear: “I’m gonna fuck the shit outta you tonight.”

* * *

"I just thought of something," Eddie says, crawling up the bed between Richie's feet. "Was I supposed to carry you into the room?” 

Richie laughs, sitting up to meet him halfway for a kiss. “It isn’t a  _ requirement_.”

“Aren’t you into cheesy, hetero romance novel stuff like that?” Eddie closes his fingers around Richie’s ankles and tugs, sending Richie onto his back. “I would have done it for you.”

“How sweet of you.”

It's more romance novel bullshit of course, wanting to be carried and walked through a path of rose petals. Unfortunately, Richie has always been tall and is currently pushing 200 pounds, which doesn't leave many male suitors who could comfortably lift him in a bridal carry. "I'm too heavy anyway." 

"You underestimate my strength.” Eddie slides his hands up Richie's bare calves. “And, I like that you're heavy. I like that you're... big. I- Is it weird to say it makes me feel safe?" 

“No,” Richie says, practically shivering at the compliment. It’s probably the best thing anyone could ever say to him. Filing it away in his brain under ‘Things I Want to Keep Close,’ right next to ‘ _but then I met you,’_ he says, “I like that.”

Eddie rubs the caps of Richie's knees and scoops his hands underneath to tickle the sensitive skin there. Then, he bends to kiss the top of Richie's thighs, just one chaste kiss above each knee. "I love your body." 

“Thank you.” 

“For loving your body?” Eddie chuckles, thumbing over Richie's inner thighs. 

“Shut up.” Richie blushes, trying not to squirm, though Eddie likely knows just how desperate Richie is to be touched. He’s smiling, smug as he scoots forward to tease his fingertips under the hem of Richie’s boxers.

“So… is that like a thing for you?” 

“I think getting compliments is a thing for everyone.” 

“No, I mean, that you make me feel safe.” Eddie tugs Richie’s boxers down, pulling them off his legs, and Richie has to force himself to concentrate on Eddie’s words.

“Oh,” he says, hissing at the cool air on his newly exposed skin. “Yeah. It feels good that you’re like, safe with me.” 

"Good." Eddie takes his time kissing the soft parts of Richie's lower belly, his hip bones, up his navel. "You're so beautiful, and you're all mine," he breathes into Richie's chest. He takes Richie's nipples into his mouth, licks along his collarbones and Richie arches into it, letting himself be admired. Richie is shaking by the time Eddie gets to his lips, his dick leaking heavily where it rests on his hip. Eddie touches him there, a loose hand around his length, and releases him too soon to open the bottle of lube and wet his fingers.

"I love doing this, I love seeing you like this," Eddie says, once he has one finger breaching him. "Fuck, my husband is gorgeous."

A shudder ripples through Richie and he takes in the praise, resisting the urge to disagree. He relaxes around another finger, tangling his own fingers in Eddie’s hair.

"Do you want to...?" Eddie sits up, chewing his lip. "Can you be on top? Like, sitting on me?"

“Yeah, of course,” Richie says, because he’d do anything if Eddie asked like this, flushed and panting.

It takes some awkward maneuvering for Richie to get in position straddled over his lap, but Eddie is patient. Richie lowers onto him, flush to Eddie’s thighs and huffs out a breath as he adjusts to the stretch. The smallest movement rattles him to the core, and he’s already falling apart, whimpering when Eddie shifts under him. Eddie smooths his hands over Richie's back, bringing him forward to kiss his chest, prompting another whimper. “Okay?” 

Richie plants his hands on the headboard and, because he isn’t a fucking quitter, starts to move, albeit slowly. “Yeah, it’s just- every time you’re inside me, it feels like I’ve never done it before. In a good way.” 

Eddie hums, his eyelids fluttering a little as Richie begins to rock against him. “Good thing you’re my husband then, huh?” 

Underneath Richie’s arousal, emotion wells up inside of him, growing every time he remembers he’s married to the love of his life. “I'm gonna cry if you keep saying that.”

“What? You don’t like it when I call you my beautiful, sexy husband?” Eddie grins, and Richie can see the gears turning in his head. "You want me to dirty talk you instead?" 

Richie touches Eddie’s cheek, dragging a thumb over his lower lip. “Go for it.”

Eddie strokes Richie’s dick in no particular rhythm, licking over his thumb, and says, in a low, sultry voice, "You like sitting on my cock, don't you?" 

“ _Fuck—_ yes.”

“I know it. You’re shaking, babe. You feel so good. So hot, so fucking tight.”

Richie opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out but a rather pathetic moan. The foreshocks of his orgasm build quickly, making his thighs tremble and his breathing uneven.

"I love how you feel on top of me. Come here." Eddie pulls him closer, letting Richie release all his weight on top of him, and starts bucking his hips up. Seeing stars, Richie lets Eddie do all the work, lets him reach around and grab his ass, fucking him like it’s his sole purpose. Brokenly, Eddie says into Richie’s ear, “You take me so well, love how you open up for me, love how you trust me-”

Richie comes too soon, barely even touching his dick, but Eddie doesn't seem to mind. He taps Richie's leg and Richie shifts up on his knees so Eddie can pull out, then he pitches them forward so Richie is on his back, still coming down.

"Wish you could fuck me now,” he says, right against Richie’s mouth. His eyes are dark, needy, asking for more.

“What do you want me to do?” 

“I wanna come with you inside me." 

"I can-" Richie looks around for the lube, but gives up when he sees it’s on the other end of the bed. “If you want-” He starts to lick his fingers, but Eddie urges his hand lower, into the mess of cum on their bellies. 

Richie pauses, and his dick twitches. “Yeah?” 

Eddie nods, guiding Richie’s cum and spit coated fingers behind him, between his cheeks. Richie works one finger in easily, and by the second one, Eddie is whining and frowning, trying to fuck back onto the digits. 

Richie rolls them over, slots himself between Eddie's legs, and hitches one knee up to get a better angle. He curls his fingers as deep as he can, then adds more pressure, making Eddie yelp. "Right there. Fuck, keep going." Eddie writhes under him, riding his fingers, biting back the urge to beg for more and just like that, Richie is rock hard again. “Are you gonna come for me?” Richie sucks a bruise into the curve of Eddie’s shoulder, and whispers into his skin, “Do you wanna come on my fingers or my dick, baby?” 

Eddie hisses, scratching down Richie’s back, nearly hard enough to break skin. “Oh,  _fuck_ , babe.”

Richie retrieves the lube and when he moves to get off the bed in search of a condom, Eddie grabs his hand to keep him near. “It’s okay,” he says, and that sends the rest of Richie’s blood rushing straight to his dick. He slicks himself up, eager to get back between Eddie’s legs, and sinks into him slowly, drawing it out, letting the sensation pull a moan out of both of them. 

The first thrust of Richie’s hips pushes Eddie up the mattress, earning a surprising gasp. With his head hanging off the edge of the bed, Eddie starts to laugh. Richie snaps his hips again and Eddie keeps laughing, letting his moans weave through it. 

It gives Richie quite the rush, urging him to go harder, grasping at the edge of the nightstand with one hand for leverage. The manic laugh vibrates through his throat against Richie’s lips and teeth. Eddie keeps his thighs bracketed tight against Richie’s hips, arching up for more friction on his hot, leaking dick, and lets Richie use his free hand to hold his head up for a kiss.

Eddie comes with a loud cry into Richie’s mouth, and it dissolves into more laughter, quieter and broken up by Richie’s thrusts. "Don’t stop," he gasps. Richie's heart pounds in his ears and he does as he’s told, his movements too sloppy and quick to be careful. He pulls out just in time to finish over Eddie's inner thighs, and would collapse if Eddie weren't sitting up to kiss him and climb into his lap. Then, because he’s obviously determined to snatch Richie’s soul, he straddles Richie's thighs, spreads the cum over his softening dick and presses it back inside.

Richie’s jaw drops and the edges of his vision literally start to darken. “I love you, but you’re trying to kill me,” he blurts out, and Eddie kisses him, laughing breathlessly against his lips.

* * *

"Hey, Richie." 

"Hmm." Richie throws an arm out in front of him, meeting an empty space. Eddie’s spot is still warm, but he isn’t in it, which isn’t ideal for Richie.

"Wake up,” Eddie says, his voice coming from somewhere far. The other end of the room maybe- Richie refuses to open his eyes, for fear he won’t be able to get back to sleep.

"Get back in bed,” Richie grumbles, patting the wrinkled sheets.

"No, wake up,” Eddie repeats. 

Something about the edge in his voice rouses Richie from his sleep immediately, setting off more than one alarm bell in his head. He rubs his eyes and pries them open, blinking at the bright room. The curtains are open, the sun is out, and whatever this is, it’s too early for it. “I’m up.”

Eddie kneels at the edge of the bed, wearing nothing but his boxers and a frown, and holds up the notepad from the bedside table. “What is this?” 

Richie squints, attempting for a second to read the words without his glasses. “Oh,” he says, remembering what happened last night, long after Eddie fell asleep naked and Richie shuffled out to the other room for water. Stan was awake and they talked for a while, sharing a few drinks before Richie joined Eddie back in bed. From what he can make out, the notepad says the words ‘thank you,’ followed by some money symbols and a smiley face. “I, um, I gave him some money.” 

Eddie’s frown remains, his eyes narrowing a bit. “How much?” 

“A thousand…” Richie trails off when he notices Eddie’s brows furrow even more. “What? Is that- should I have not done that?” 

“I didn’t say that. It’s just a lot of money to give away to a stranger.” 

“He needed it more than us,” Richie explains. “We’ll be fine.” 

“It’s still a lot.” 

“Well, I mean…” Richie sighs, averting his eyes from Eddie’s hard expression. “It was  _ my _ money I gave him, not yours.” 

Eddie doesn’t even blink. “Well, if we’re married don’t you think we should talk first about stuff like this?” 

Panic rises in Richie’s throat and suddenly, this feels like an interrogation. He’s not even fully awake yet and if his headache is anything to go by, he’s a little hungover, which leaves him no energy to choose his words carefully. “You didn’t complain when Ben gave  _ me _ money.” 

“That's different,” Eddie snaps. "And we weren’t married then anyway."

‘ _A week ago,_ ’ Richie wants to say, but he looks at the clock instead. They've been married less than 24 hours and it's _ definitely  _ too early in the day  _ and _ in their relationship for this argument. “What difference does it make, Eddie?” 

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Richie regrets them. They hang harshly in the silence of the small room, and Richie’s thoughts race and scramble trying to come up with a way to correct himself.

“Fuck, Richie, I’m sorry. It's-” Eddie groans, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes. “I’m not trying to— If I'm being an asshole, tell me.” 

Richie reaches for him instinctively, pulling his hands away from his face. “You’re not. I’m just wondering where this is coming from.” 

Eddie crawls into the bed next to him, falling into the pillows with his face hidden. “He asked you for money?” 

“Not explicitly.” 

“But...he  _ implied_.”

“That he needed help, yes,” Richie answers carefully.

“And you don’t think he did that on purpose?” Eddie asks softly, with anger still lingering in his tone. “Knowing you would offer?” 

Richie sighs, and it comes out sounding somewhere between knowing and defeated. “So, it’s not about the money.” 

Eddie fidgets, his jaw clenching and nails scratching and picking at the sheets. “I’m just saying, if he took advantage of your kindness then that’s kind of fucked up.” 

"Eddie, I really don’t think that’s the case.” Richie pulls away from him and tilts his head up to look at him fully. ”Unless you see something I don’t see.”

Stone-faced, Eddie waits a beat and says, “Okay, I’ll drop it.”

“It’s sweet that you care,” Richie says, and realizing how sarcastic it sounds, he adds: “I mean that. But, I’m fine. We’re fine.”

Eddie sticks his lower lip out in a pout and then, seeming to realize he’s doing it, scrunches his noses and purses his lips instead. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

Eddie kisses Richie’s knuckles and the tension dissolves. “Shower?”

Richie nods. “Then breakfast?”

“You know me too well.”

In the shower, Eddie returns to his typical ‘wake up Richie’ routine, soft, calm kisses, and rambles about nothing in particular.

Unfortunately, the calm doesn’t last. Downstairs, they’re passing one of the casino bars when Eddie pulls out of Richie’s grasp. Richie looks, following Eddie’s line of sight, and spots Stan sitting alone at the bartop with a drink in his hand.

“Hey!” Stan greets them, cool as ever. His smile doesn’t even falter when he sees Eddie’s hard expression.

Eddie skips pleasantries and cuts right to the chase. “Hey, so Richie says you asked him for money.” 

Stan raises his glass to his lips, flicking his lazy gaze to where Richie stands stupidly behind Eddie. “He offered.” 

“But, like, what did you say to make him offer it to you-” 

Richie clears his throat, wrapping a hand around Eddie’s elbow. “Eddie, c’mon-”

Eddie goes on, overly casual, talking with his hands. “It just really feels convenient, you know, getting us into bed, asking us for money-” 

“I don’t think it was like that,” Richie says, and he truly means it. If he had gotten a weird vibe from Stan, they would have left him at that gas station in Pahrump. “Eddie-”

“It really wasn’t.” Stan chuckles, bewildered. “Relax, dude.” 

“Listen,” Eddie says quietly, bristling and tensing in Richie’s grasp, “don’t tell me to relax.” 

Stan turns in his seat and raises a brow, sizing Eddie up. The corner of his lips are turned up into something resembling a smile, but the fire in his eyes rivals Eddie’s. It’s a faceoff no one would want to be in the middle of, tension rising like a match to gasoline. “Fine, I won’t,” he says, and stands up. Richie is ready to release the breath he’s holding, until Stan shoulder checks Eddie. Before Richie can react, Eddie charges forward and shoves Stan hard, sending him a few steps back. Stan shoves him back harder, knocking him into Richie. 

When Eddie cocks his fist back, Richie makes the mistake of trying to step in— “Eddie, don’t-” and gets an elbow to the face. The pain spreads through his nose, making his eyes water, and Stan comes forward, fisting the collar of Eddie’s shirt. Through the sting of his nose and his watering eyes, Richie wraps both arms around Eddie’s waist and literally picks him up, pulling him away. It’s around this time that the bartender catches wind of what’s going on and calls security. “You’re a shitty person,” Eddie spits at Stan, twisting in Richie’s arms. “Trust me, I know it when I see it.” He has a few more choice words for Stan as Richie carries him out of the lobby, but at least he relaxes into the embrace.

“Alright, I’m calling it,” Richie decides, as blood begins to trickle from his nose and over his lips “We’re leaving.”

In the elevator up to their suite, Richie holds a wad of napkins to his nostrils. Across from him, Eddie stands, shoulders hunched, his hands shoved in his pockets. Pressed right up next to the door, Stan waits with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Okay,” Richie says to Eddie, “You were kind of being an asshole down there.” 

“I know,” Eddie responds. His face is tinged red, his eyes not quite meeting Richie’s. “I’m sorry.” 

“I’ll try to tell you-” 

Eddie shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have to tell me. It was stupid of me to ask.” 

“Yeah, maybe,” Richie says, holding out his hand for Eddie to take.

“Do you still like me?” Eddie asks, eagerly intertwining their fingers. 

“Yes,” Richie answers, not a doubt in his mind. He couldn’t pry the affection and love he has for Eddie out of his chest if he tried. An accidental bloody nose doesn’t change anything. “I love you.”

Eddie smiles, his expression softening. “Do you still want to be married to me?” 

“Of course.”

They finish packing within a few minutes, tossing their belongings haphazardly into their bags. Stan mutters a goodbye to Richie, tosses his duffel bag over his shoulder and exits like a swift wind.

Before they leave, Eddie dumps the rest of their cash out onto the crumpled sheets. Apparently, all the gas, food, drinks, hotels, and miscellaneous shit like cowboy hats and pens have added up, because they’re thousands of dollars down from where they started.

“Is this what being married is like?” Richie jokes, as they stack the bills. “Arguing about money and realizing how broke you are?” 

“Maybe so.” Eddie grins and crawls across the piles of money to give Richie a kiss. It’s languid, bordering on desperate, Eddie licking into Richie’s mouth like an apology. “So, where do you want to go for our honeymoon?” 

_ August 4th- I know who Eddie Kaspbrak-Tozier is- he’s my beautiful, sweet, hotheaded husband. Because of him, I know more about myself. I, Richie Kaspbrak-Tozier, am capable of spontaneity, letting go of fears and insecurities, and indulging in the rush of total freedom. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew. we're halfway through! ya'll mind if I scream?
> 
> anyway, I'm gonna take a short hiatus so I can catch up and maybe write some other things. see ya'll in two weeks! In the mean time, hit me up on twitter (@ curiousair) or comment below. [holds you tenderly] I'm here if you want to talk.


	7. a stranger's heart without a home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! I'm back!  
> title credit- fade into you, by mazzy star

Sedona is as breathtaking as it is in photos. The empty deserts on the outskirts of Arizona made way for the towering red rock canyons on the horizon, naturally striped with brown and red, glowing orange in the late afternoon sun. Eddie is in the driver's seat, one hand on the wheel, one hand on Richie’s thigh, his eyes on the road. There’s a secret shining in his eyes, brightening whenever Richie looks at him. Richie has been smiling for the last 100 miles, his cheeks aching and anticipation heavy in the pit of his stomach. As they left Vegas, Eddie hunched over his phone in the passenger’s seat, grinning, and informed Richie that he had a honeymoon planned for them. They had switched seats at the border of Nevada and Arizona, and since then Eddie has been speeding down the highway with the music loud, periodically glancing down at the map on his phone, refusing to give Richie any details.

“It’s still a surprise,” he says now, sensing the question on Richie’s lips. “We’re almost there. You’ll love it, I promise.”

Driving into a winding paved entrance lined with trees, Eddie pulls over, turns the radio off and says, “So, I want to blindfold you.”

Richie blinks. “Excuse me?”

“For the surprise, Richie.” 

“Um.” Richie pauses, studying Eddie’s expression. “I’m actually not the biggest fan of being blindfolded.”

Eddie smiles and says, in a velvety voice, “Don’t you trust me?”

Richie kisses him, quick and reassuring. “Of course I trust you.” 

Eddie rummages in the backseat and comes back with a wrinkled bandanna, handing it to Richie. “Tie it tight, and no peeking.”

Richie does as he’s told, obscuring his vision completely. “I won’t, I promise.” 

The car starts and Eddie returns his hand to Richie’s thigh. Just moments later, the car stops and Richie waits, hearing the driver’s side door open. Then, his door opens and Eddie is reaching for him, helping him out of the car. “Follow me.”

“I don’t have a choice, do I?” Richie asks, tripping over his feet to keep up with Eddie’s quick pace.

They step into an air conditioned space, and Richie waits when Eddie pulls away for a minute, taking in the distinct, clean hotel scent. Eddie returns, holding Richie’s hand tight and they’re outdoors again in the fresh air with a vague freshwater scent beneath the unmistakable, earthy aroma of greenery and soil. 

“Almost there,” Eddie says, and a disorienting few minutes later, he stops them. Nearby, Richie hears the gentle splash of water and farther away, ducks quacking. “What the hell-” He pulls down the blindfold and all the breath leaves his lungs. Next to him, Eddie holds all their bags, watching Richie carefully. Excitement etches itself into Eddie’s features, in his wide smile and the lines by his eyes. “What do you think?”

“Oh my god.”

They’re nestled neatly in a canyon, canopied by lush green trees. He looks up through the trees to the east and sees the Red Rocks closer than he ever has before, like a painting against the sky. Behind Eddie, there’s a quaint cottage with a wooden deck and a short set of steps leading down to the bank of the creek in front of them. It stretches for miles in either direction, the wide mouth of it not visible from where Richie stands, awestruck.

“Eddie, holy shit. How did you get this?”

“I googled ‘most romantic resorts in Arizona’ and went through a list of places until I found one with available rooms at the last minute.”

Richie has heard about the ‘vortexes’ in Sedona, hidden places between the rock formations that claim to be innately spiritual or magical enough to bring upon all kinds of awakenings and revelations. He’s heard that Sedona in its entirety is a vortex, attracting people seeking solace or freedom or healing. Standing in the soft dirt, looking up at the sky, Richie feels the energy move up through his feet and course through him until he’s buzzing. When Eddie slots their hands together, he smiles because he’s felt this before. He presses his lips to Eddie’s temple and Eddie’s eyes flutter closed, a breathless little laugh falling from his lips. “Did I do okay?” he asks, so softly he voice cracks, hitting a nerve that brings a tear to Richie’s eye.

“I’d marry you again if I could.”

Inside, bright, natural light streaks across the white walls and wood floors. There’s a fireplace between two chairs, a table topped with complimentary wine, and a king sized bed topped with overstuffed pillows. The bathroom is all white porcelain with a garden view, and a door leads outside to a private oak shower. 

The first thing they do after stepping back outside to admire the view is have sex on the deck— Eddie bends over the railing with his jeans and boxers clumsily pulled down under the curve of his ass and Richie, with just his dick out of his jeans, presses close, attempting to pump into him inconspicuously. Trees block some of the view from the adjacent deck, but if anyone were to stand there long enough, or god forbid walk along the creek, they’d have quite the view. 

"I hear someone," Richie whispers, stilling his movements with his hands on either side of Eddie’s bare ass, hoping it does enough to cover the exposed skin. 

Eddie opens his eyes, looks at the couple stepping out onto the deck not twenty feet away and waves at them. "It's beautiful, right?"

Involuntarily, Richie snaps his hips and manages to keep his voice low when he groans, “Jesus fucking christ, Eddie.”

The second the couple is out of view, Eddie shoves a hand down the front of his jeans, arches his back, and comes in an impressively silent manner. They head to the outdoor shower, stripping down to nothing in the privacy of the alcove. Eddie gets on his knees and takes Richie into his mouth, looking up through his eyelashes. Richie tangles his fingers in Eddie’s wet hair, knuckles to his scalp, and tugs, watching Eddie’s eyes darken. He moans and the hum vibrates up Richie’s spine, sending him over the edge.

Later, they take a quiet walk around the resort, looking at all the experiences it has to offer, and end up at the far-too-fancy restaurant by the creek. Somehow, they manage to pretend they’re higher class than they actually are, though Richie is acutely aware that they stick out like a sore thumb with their unshaven faces and wrinkled clothes. A few glasses of wine loosen them up, getting them giggling too loud and touching under the table. Eddie corks the wine bottle, they take it back to their deck and Richie is content to sprawl across Eddie’s lap. The sun sets beautifully over the canyon and they sit in the glow, passing the bottle back and forth until there isn’t a drop left. Tipsy on happiness and the bitter wine, they set out to stargaze in one of the garden areas of the resort, sitting away from the rest of the group so they can let their hands roam. Richie’s fingertips stroking Eddie’s palm, Eddie’s curling around Richie’s bicep. Their touches are innocent, but in their devised privacy, it always feels like an invitation for much more. A lead up to giving in to their mutual, carnal desires and the wild affection blooming in their chest swirling together to create the perfect storm. Richie looks up and feels small compared to the vastness above them, but that hardly matters when he and Eddie are the center of each other’s universe.

In bed that night, with the lights dim, they’re in the placid space in which they continuously exist, reminding Richie of how they first connected, tethered to each other by an addicting buzz and a much needed calm before they even knew how to define it. It’s the same, like the world has stopped spinning, like time has stopped, like all the air has been sucked out of the room. All their layers are there, wrapped around them tightly, except there’s something new, a silky ribbon tied in a bow. They’re married now, another thing to explore before they’ve even unraveled the other layers and Richie is a  _husband_ , something he’s always wanted to be. Something more than an endless well of unreciprocated support under the guise of love. 

"Hey, you." Eddie is playful and maybe still tipsy, mouthing up Richie's belly, tickling him. Richie rolls him over, kissing along the column of his neck, down his tattooed chest. "That feels so good, you're so good at this. Can't believe you're my husband." 

"I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that,” Richie says, with his lips pressed behind Eddie’s ear, chasing any reaction he can get. “I swear it puts me on the verge of tears every time you say it.” 

"It’s my favorite thing to say.” Eddie lets Richie pin his wrists to the bed, pliant in Richie’s grip. “I want to say it all the time...until it starts feeling real and maybe I'll say it even more." 

"You've always wanted to call me your husband, since the moment I touched you,” Richie whispers into his dimpled cheek, trailing one hand down to cup him through his boxers. “I can't even wrap my head around that. Sometimes I still can't believe you want me in that way."

"How could I not? You're fucking magic, did you know that?" Eddie says, and Richie sighs, hiding his smile against Eddie’s shoulder. "I wasn't planning on proposing so soon. I just couldn’t wait- I didn't  _ want _ to wait...and I want to say that I can't believe you said yes, but I knew you would." 

"I'm that transparent, am I?" 

"Yeah-” Eddie chokes out, cut short by Richie’s hand slipping under his waistband. “Fuck, you're so good at that." 

"I've heard." Richie trails kisses down Eddie’s bicep and the inside of his forearm, stopping at the crease of his elbow, reveling in his shiver. 

“Could do this forever, just laying with you…letting you touch me.” 

“Still gonna want me like this when we’re eighty?” 

Eddie sighs, moving against Richie’s hand. “I said forever, didn’t I?” 

_Forever_. Richie keens at the idea, imagining them through the years, bemoaning their graying hair, fussing over their children, sitting at his mother’s kitchen table for Sunday dinner and-  _Oh shit. _

Richie stops. “Oh, shit.” 

Eddie stops too, blinking up at him. “What?”

“I haven’t told my mom that we’re married.” Richie sits up, nearly frantic as he searches for his phone, finding it tucked under the blankets. “Oh, fuck. She’s gonna kill me-”

“Because you need her permission, or…?” Eddie adjusts himself in his boxers, understanding that the previous mood is basically shattered.

“No,” Richie hisses, as the phone rings and rings, “because I fucking forgot to tell her and I didn’t even attempt to invite her-”

“It’s been like a day, babe.”

“I  _know_ but it’s important to her and-”

“Hi, Richie,” his mother greets, in her usual cheery tone.

“Hi, mom,” Richie says, attempting to sound just as cheery. It comes out forced and she notices it immediately.

There’s a pause, and then: “You sound funny.”

“Uhh,” Richie glances at Eddie, who’s still lying back against the pillows, listening to one side of the conversation. “What do you mean?”

“Richie.” There’s worry in her voice now, pulling out guilt from the deep recesses of Richie’s gut. “Is everything okay?”

“No- I mean, yeah, everything is good.”

Silence stretches between them and when he closes his eyes he can almost see her, waiting for him to say what he really wants to say.

“Eddie and I got married.”

He’s met with more silence and he was nervous before, but now he’s practically ready to bite through his fingertips. 

“Richie,” she says, with a long-suffering sigh. She’s good at this, making him feel guilty without meaning to.

“I’m sorry, I should have told you. I know it happened fast-”

“Let me talk to him.”

Richie’s stomach flips and he balks a bit, clearing his throat. “To Eddie?”

“Yes. Eddie, your  _ husband_.”

Richie holds out the phone and before he even gets the words out, a terrified expression crosses Eddie’s face. “She wants to talk to you.”

Taking the phone, Eddie inhales sharply. “Hi-” he stops, wincing at how unnatural his voice sounds. 

“Put it on speaker,” Richie whispers. 

Eddie lays the phone between them and taps the speaker key. Richie holds his breath. 

“Hi, I’m Eddie.”

“Hi, I’m Maggie.”

Another long pause wedges itself into the conversation and Eddie is visibly uncomfortable, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I’ve, um, heard a lot of good things about you.”

“I’ve heard some good things about you too,” his mother says, “but not nearly enough. Hopefully when we meet, I can learn more.”

“Yeah.”

“When are we meeting?” she asks easily, and it’s an honest question. She’s not the type to be petty or instigate difficult situations for the sake of it. Still, it makes Richie itch, gets his mind racing with more questions, tangling with the others left unanswered in his mind.

Eddie looks up at Richie, panic in his eyes, and Richie has no answers. They haven’t even talked about it, not even in passing.

“Um. Soon, I hope. We have our trip to finish after all,” Eddie says, with a weak chuckle.

“Good,” she says, and then, “Richie says you’re good to him.” 

Eddie smiles, more genuine now. “I hope so.” 

“You better be,” she says, and Eddie’s smile falters. When Eddie begins to stumble over his words for a response, she adds, “I’m kidding. I trust that you’re a good person if Richie married you. I can’t wait to meet you.” 

“You too.”

“Have a good night, Eddie.”

“You too,” he mutters, already sliding the phone back to Richie. He gets up and crosses the room, turning on the light near the fireplace.

Richie picks up the phone, watching Eddie carefully. The stiffness in his shoulders and the tightness in his jaw distracts Richie from his mother’s voice.

“-well, he sounds nice.”

“I think you scared him,” Richie says.

“Honey,  _ you’re _ scaring me. You decide to marry a man after knowing him for a month-”

Richie scrambles to turn the phone off speaker, bringing it to his ear. “-and you didn’t think to call me until a day after you’ve done it. What’s going on?”

“Nothing...A lot- I- I love him.”

“I know, Richie. I know. You sound happy and I  _ am _ very excited to meet him. I just worry it’s too soon.”

“Mom,” he says, in that same pleading tone she uses.

“Richie,” she says, softer than he expected.

Across the room, Eddie is uncorking another bottle of wine and taking a drink directly from the bottle, with a bit more desperation than earlier.

“I think I’m gonna go to bed,” Richie says into the phone. “I’ll call you tomorrow. I love you.”

Groaning, Richie tosses his phone to the chair next to Eddie. “That could have gone worse.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, clipped. He turns away from Richie and immediately after, seeming to realize what he’s doing, he turns to face him again. “It could have.”

The energy in the room shifts again, this time more stilted than panicked. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Eddie says, and then, trying to smile, he says, “I’m tired. We had a long day today and have another long day ahead of us.” 

“Come to bed,” Richie tells him, biting back his urge to ask again. Instead he turns off the light and pulls back the covers, relaxing when Eddie crawls in next to him and slots his back against Richie’s chest.

Placing a kiss between Eddie’s shoulder blades, Richie whispers, "I love you." 

Eddie stays still and silent, holding Richie's hand to his heart.

* * *

“Good morning, sunshine.”

Eddie's voice drifts into Richie’s dream-fogged brain, and a kiss on his cheek slowly pulls him out of his sleep. Richie hums, enjoying the comfort of his fuzzy, half-awake state for a little while longer before sitting up. 

The curtains are open and Eddie stands next to the sliding glass door, peering outside. In the silence, taking advantage of not being seen, Richie watches him. He’s fully dressed, wide awake and chewing his thumbnail, his gaze frozen on something in the distance.

“Did you sleep at all last night?”

Eddie jumps, whipping his head around to look at Richie, eyes wide. His expression softens and he chuckles a little at himself, taking his thumb away from his mouth. “A little.”

Richie rolls out of bed, pausing when he sees the sweet display on the bedside table. A bunch of red roses, tied together in a white ribbon sat next to a box of chocolate. 

“Where did you get roses?” 

“I’ve been to a flower shop and back.” Eddie smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. They’re rimmed with red, adorned with dark circles. “You sleep like a rock.”

“Could get used to waking up to random gifts.” Richie goes to him, encircling both arms around his waist. He’s giving Eddie what he needs without him asking for it, feeling the tension in his muscles fade within seconds. “I feel like a dick because I haven’t really gotten you anything but a cowboy hat.” 

“You don’t have to buy me gifts,” Eddie says, pressing a kiss to Richie’s knuckles. “You  _ are _ a gift.” 

An early morning walk along the creek leads them to the on-site spa where they giggle and moan inappropriately through a couple’s massage session, clasping their hands together to bridge the gap between the two tables. Their newly relaxed state, aided by champagne, leads them back to bed and they nap through the afternoon. Eddie sleeps for longer, having not slept much last night, and he wakes up less wired, curling into Richie’s side with a sparkle in his kaleidoscope eyes, lit by a single ray of late afternoon sunshine coming through the curtains.

Before sunset, they find themselves in the enclosed pool area, stopping short at the hot tub when they notice a man already inside, glancing down at his phone. As they approach, the man notices them too, gives them a polite wave and says, “Oh, don’t mind me.” 

Eddie pulls Richie forward, stepping into the bubbling water. “We apologize in advance. We’re kind of incapable of appropriate PDA.” 

The man chuckles, moving over to make room for them though he doesn’t need to. He’s handsome in a classic way, broad and tall, straight white teeth, brown skin. There’s no ring on this man’s finger, Richie notices, not like most other men at the resort. Since getting married, Richie has found himself watching strangers’ hands, looking for the glisten of smooth gold or engraved silver. It’s another way for Richie to categorize himself, lumping himself in with the wide array of married men. Men with distinguished features and endearing crows feet. Men with sleeping infants strapped tightly to their chest. Men with designer shoes and haircuts to match. 

Setting his phone down next to an expensive looking watch, which would be gaudy paired with anything other than the kind smile on his face, the man says, “Newlyweds?” 

Richie smiles too, blushing like he’s been caught. “How could you tell?”

“You both have that loved up look in your eyes.”

Through more perceptive eyes, watching them must look like they’re touching with the intention of crawling under the other’s skin. Richie knows what he looks like when Eddie is close, pupils blown and eyes half-lidded like he’s under the influence of much more than Eddie’s touch.

The man seems to be alone, no partner lurking behind a corner or coming back to the hot tub with umbrella topped cocktails. It requires a certain level of confidence to travel alone, which Richie’s insecurities have never allowed him to possess. “What about you? Just here for a solo vacation?”

“I’m here for work actually. I’m a writer.” The man grins and waves a hand at their surroundings. “Doing a lot of it, as you can see.” 

“Fiction?” Richie guesses.

The man’s smile falters slightly before he picks it up again, forcing it to stay put. “Self-help. Inspirational stuff. So far, nothing has inspired me enough to, well...inspire other people, I guess. But, I’ve got a few days to make something up.”

Eddie skims his hand over the surface of the water, through the bubbles and rising steam. “Ah, so it  _ is _ all made up bullshit.”

The man laughs, abrupt and full. “Yes and no. It all stems from some form of truth. Writing it down and making it sound groundbreaking is where it gets...fabricated.”

“ _Fabricated_ ,” Eddie repeats. “Great word choice.”

“Thanks. I’m Mike, by the way,” he says, and offers his hand. “Sorry. For someone who writes about people, I’m pretty bad at interacting with them.”

Richie shakes Mike’s hand, startled a bit by his firm grip, enveloped in Mike’s affable, yet confident energy. He’s met people like Mike before, people with kindhearted spirits that breathe cool, fresh air into his lungs and wrap around him like a hug. 

“I talk too much,” Mike adds, with a self-deprecating chuckle.

“I’m a writer too,” Richie says. “Sort of. Haven’t quite figured out a genre yet.”

“It’ll come to you. Whatever you do, don’t force it,” Mike advises gravely. “And don’t stick with it because it comes naturally to you. It’s what I did, and I have regrets. Though it does pay the bills and fund pointless trips like this, so I can’t complain too much.”

“Do you ever think about doing something different?” Richie asks. Surely, there are endless possibilities for someone like Mike, who is oozing with charisma. “Writing other non-fiction genres, maybe?”

“Yeah, but… I feel guilty thinking about leaving dedicated readers behind. And, therein lies the rub...People just want to be better, whether that means self improvement stemming from intrinsic desires or something else entirely,” Mike says, and lets out a resigned sigh. “And if I help them with that then, I guess I should keep doing it.”

“Unless it doesn’t make you happy,” Richie says, and there’s something sad about the way Mike’s eyebrows raise at the word ‘happy.’

“Happy,” Mike echoes, as if he’s considering the meaning of the word. “That’s interesting. I wouldn’t say it makes me happy on a base level. But, it does make me feel…”

“Important,” Richie finishes, with a sense of familiarity tingling up his spine.

“Exactly. And, like I’m…” Mike purses his lips and snaps his fingers a few times.

Richie aides him again, the words on the tip of his tongue. “Doing what you’re supposed to do.”

“Exactly,” Mike says. “My calling, I suppose.  _That _ makes me happy.”

Richie has ruminated on these same ideas, over and over. Sometimes, at night he’d lie awake and resign himself to the idea that the satisfaction he gets from helping others is just as good as fixing himself. More times than he can count, he has sat in the dark, choked back lonely tears, and convinced himself that helping other people is enough. In the light of day, he’d continue to lean into the feelings of pride about being  _ useful _ and  _ needed_, telling himself it’s as good as pure, unadulterated happiness.

Now, he thinks the closest he’s ever felt to that is being with Eddie, in their quiet, private moments when the rest of the world seems to melt away.

Next to him, Eddie has gone still and quiet. Richie drapes an arm around his shoulders and kisses his cheek. The setting sun glows bright orange over the planes of his unsmiling face and for a second, Richie is stunned by his beauty. Tearing his gaze away, lest he drowns into Eddie’s deep brown stare, he turns to see Mike watching them with something akin to wistfulness in his eyes.

* * *

The resort’s sunrise yoga class is packed with tall, thin women perfectly mimicking the instructor’s movements. Though they’re still in the warm-up stage, Richie already feels like he’s torn something in his groin. He’s sitting directly on the cool wood without a yoga mat, the soles of his feet pressed together and his knees refusing to lower any more to allow a deeper stretch. Eddie is next to him, laying flat on his back with his eyes closed, likely on his way back to sleep if not already there. It was his idea to show up to this, dragging Richie out of bed for the  _ experience_, yet now it’s as if the vinyasa flow is merely a suggestion.

“Husband’s not a yogi, I take it?” 

Mike settles in next to Richie, rolling out a mat. 

“I’m not really a yogi either, to be fair.” Richie stretches out his legs, giving up on the hip opener.

“Neither am I, but when in Rome,” Mike chuckles, and proceeds to move into the pose with no effort at all.

“Could have fooled me,” Richie says, and briefly considers if it’s rude to talk during a yoga class. “This was Eddie’s idea, despite what it looks like.”

Mike transitions from the hip opener to a seated backbend, lifting his arms over his head and puffing out his chest. “He may be on to something.”

As Richie tries his best to keep up with the flow of the class, thoroughly impressed at the ease at which Mike follows along, Eddie stays put in his reclined position. Mike occasionally pauses between poses to make an offhand comment under his breath, laughing softly at his own corny jokes. Richie stifles his laughter, his cheeks aching from holding back his grin. More than once, he looks down and catches Eddie watching them thoughtfully, picking at the broken skin on his lip with his teeth.

* * *

It’s a mere coincidence that they run into Mike again at the resort’s restaurant. He’s sitting alone in the outdoor seating area and gives them a small wave, calling then over to say hello. After standing at the table chatting for a few minutes, Mike asks if they'd like to join. "My treat," he says, "a gift for the newlyweds." They order their lunch with a bottle of wine, and he and Richie fall back into a comfortable conversation.

Eddie hasn’t talked much all day, and Richie had thought it was sleep deprivation finally catching up to him, but even after a nap he's uncharacteristically quiet. For possibly the first time since they’ve touched, Eddie hasn’t given Richie a single tell, not even a nervous shift in his seat to make it easier for Richie to read his mood. With a sudden stab of panic, Richie realizes that maybe Eddie  _ doesn’t want to be read _ this time.

When their food arrives, Eddie pushes it around his plate, only having a few bites. Richie looks at him, questioning, and Eddie shrugs, nonchalant. “Guess I wasn’t as hungry as I thought.” 

“What kind of work do you do?” Mike asks, sliding the bottle of white wine across the table. Richie declines, but Eddie pours himself another glass, filled to the brim. 

“Professional cuddling. It’s how Eddie and I met, actually,” Richie says, attempting to pull Eddie into the conversation. Eddie doesn’t take the bait— he’s still watching Mike carefully, an inquisitive glint in his eye. 

“Interesting.” Mike looks at Eddie, seemingly waiting for his input as well. “I’ve heard it’s therapeutic.” 

“I think so,” Richie says. “I like my job. Like you said, people need it and I can provide it.”

“Do you ever wonder if you aren’t the best person to provide it?” Mike asks, swirling the wine in his glass. “I’m always wondering how common it is for people in positions like ours to experience imposter syndrome.” 

“I think it’s common, even if no one is questioning your position, you still might wonder sometimes if you deserve to be there. Because you have, like-” 

“ _Baggage_ , right?” 

“Right,” Richie says, his stomach churning. 

“I’m always someone who is there for other people, and that’s  _ great_." Mike sighs and takes a drink. "But, I always find myself asking...how am I supposed to help other people when I can’t even help myself?  _ Anyway _ , ah, sorry, I’m going on about myself too much. Can you tell I don’t get much genuine human interaction?” 

Listening to Mike speak feels like a spotlight shining directly on some of Richie’s worst traits. In this new illumination it feels awfully like Mike has cracked him open, grabbed him by the spine and shook him until Richie had no choice but to face all the problems he has shoved away in favor of existing in a perpetual state of being ‘fine.’

“Anyway, maybe I shouldn’t be complaining, I’m sure other people have it worse. Doctors and therapists, for example.” 

“I like helping people,” Richie says, and the following words are bitter on his tongue. “Honestly, I don’t know if I’m good at anything else.” He glances at Eddie, at his downturned lips and sleepy eyes, thinks, ‘ _I like being here for you_ ’ and Eddie must feel it, because he leans in slightly, subtle enough that no one else might have seen it. Richie traces the shape of a heart on his thigh, and Eddie smiles for the first time in hours.

After lunch, they walk aimlessly through the resort, Richie and Mike continuing their conversation, and they end up stopping near the creekside cottages. 

“I’m staying on the other side actually,” Mike says, motioning to the suites behind the restaurant. “Great view of the red rocks.”

Eddie clears his throat and speaks up, taking Richie's hand. "Think I might stay in the room for a little while. You go ahead and hang out with Mike if you want. I’ll be here when you get back.” 

“Are you sure?” Richie asks, pulling him aside.

Eddie blinks at him, tries to smile. “Yeah, babe.” 

“I’ll stay-”

“No,” Eddie says, giving Richie a quick kiss. “Go.”

Richie watches Eddie retreat up the wooden steps of their cottage without looking back.

"Sorry. I don't mean to hijack your honeymoon,” Mike says from the edge of the creek.

“You didn’t,” Richie says, joining him. He accepts the handful of duck feed and tosses some at his feet, watching the ducks swarm. “He talked to my mom the other day on the phone and I think something she said freaked him out. Maybe when he meets her, it’ll be different.” 

Mike raises a brow, more confused than judgmental. “He hasn’t met your mother?” 

“Funny story.” Richie chuckles weakly, clearing his throat. “We, um, eloped,” he says, which is quite the euphemism for impulsively getting married in Las Vegas. 

“Exciting,” Mike says, and starts to walk along the bank, away from the cottage. “Was that the plan?”

“No. Our relationship started in a strange way. He was with someone else-,” Richie stops himself, that pesky little guilt making its way up his small intestine once again. “I don’t like to think about that a lot because, well, I tend to overthink.” 

Mike leads Richie to stop at a clearing where they can look straight through the canyon to the clear, blue horizon, and says easily, "I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

If only it were that easy to convince himself not to worry. At this point, it’s ingrained in him just as much as his propensity to help other people before himself. Who would he even be without his impulsive thoughts? Even his worst and most recent ones— the ones that hiss the word ‘homewrecker’ into his ear, the ones that question if what he and Eddie have is  _ enough_, and the ones that force him to wonder who Eddie is and question how he feels— are all a part of him, and even if he ignores them most of the time, maybe learning to exist with them is part of self growth. 

“Sometimes it doesn’t feel real. Too good to be true.” 

“There’s nothing fake about the way you two look at each other,” Mike says, and it’s almost grave the way he says it, as if he’d argue with his entire heart and soul if Richie ever admitted he felt differently.

“I love him,” Richie says, because it’s one of the few things he  _ does _ know. 

Crouching to toss more duck feed on the ground, Mike asks, “How did you know you loved him?” 

Richie crouches next to him. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean, what did it feel like?” 

With a wave of sadness, Richie realizes that it’s a genuine question. “Um. When you touch, it feels like electricity coursing through you. Then it’s light...fluttery, airy. Like your heart is swelling up in your chest and you can feel it in your throat and it makes you want to cry. And sometimes I...I feel dizzy with it, almost drunk.” 

Mike blinks, swallowing hard. “I can’t say I’ve felt anything like that.” 

“I’m sorry,” Richie says, and he truly is. Before Eddie, he had never felt anything like it either and if someone had told him this is what it would feel like, it only would have exacerbated his loneliness. “You have time though. I know it’ll happen for you. You’re a good person.” 

There’s hope radiating from Mike, weaved in with a current of sadness. He looks at the ground, at the wet dirt under his feet. “Maybe.” 

* * *

It’s dark when Richie returns to the room. Using the faint moonlight streaming in from the glass door, he makes out the shape of Eddie on the bed, stumbles over their bags in the middle of the floor, and finds his way to the nightstand to turn on the lamp. 

“Hey,” Eddie mumbles, squinting at the brightness. He’s still fully dressed, shoes and all, curled up with his phone in his hand. Richie curls up next to him without hesitating, reaching out to touch him like it’s been days since the last time.

“Hey,” he says, stroking his hand over Eddie’s hip and down his thigh. “So, obviously something is wrong and it would be nice if you told me what it is.” 

“I’m fine.” Eddie buries his head into Richie’s chest, hiding in a way that’s become familiar to Richie. This time Richie lets him, holding him tighter. Startlingly, Eddie doesn’t immediately relax in the embrace.

“Eddie, I can  _ feel _ that you aren't fine. You have to talk to me. That’s how this works.” 

“How what works?”

“Marriage? Relationships in general?”

“I’m just tired,” Eddie says, and it’s not nearly as convincing as it was earlier. Nothing about the way he rigidly clings to Richie’s biceps says ‘tired.’

“Was it something my mom said?” Richie asks.

Eddie shakes his head. “No.” 

“Well, you were fine before then.” 

“It’s not her. She said the same thing any mom would say.” 

“Then what is it?” Richie asks, desperation seeping into his tone. “Is it Mike?” 

“I like Mike...you two get along really well.” 

The forced calm tone reveals more than Eddie intended and Richie pulls away, searching Eddie’s expression. “Should we- should I have not spent so much time with him? I hope you aren’t- I know it's our honeymoon, so maybe we shouldn’t-” 

“It’s not that, I promise.” Eddie attempts to turn away again but Richie stops him, a gentle hand on his cheek. Eddie relents, finally, his eyes going as soft as his voice. “I think I’m just- maybe it’s just setting in that we’re married, you know?” 

Panic spikes up through Richie’s chest and into his throat like needles. “Oh.” 

“So, I’m kind of in my head about...stuff.” 

Richie hasn’t had the time and space to consider this possibility, he realizes. Half of him wishes Eddie never told him this— it would make it easier for him to ignore his persistent, impulsive thoughts and continue to live in their bubble of newlywed bliss. It’s in direct conflict with his other side, who desperately craves to know more, if only to quell his insecurities that he had fooled himself into thinking were gone once Eddie put a ring on his finger. 

“Do you- are you...having second thoughts?” 

“No, no of course not.” Eddie shakes his head, brings a hand to Richie’s cheek too. “I want to be with you. I want to be married to you.” 

Though it’s unspoken, Richie hears the ‘ _ but_,’ and isn’t less terrified when Eddie doesn’t say it. They lie there, mirroring each other and Richie forces his voice into something more collected and calm than he actually feels. “You can talk to me, Eddie.” 

“I know, I know,” Eddie says, nearly a whisper.

“I’m your husband, Eddie. Okay? I love you.”

A knock at the door pulls Eddie away quickly, a sigh escaping him that sounds too relieved. Richie rolls out of bed and opens the door, not surprised to see Mike on the other side. What does surprise him is the dark bottle of whiskey in Mike's hands.

"Where's the party?" Richie jokes.

Mike laughs, as open and honest as he has been all day. “Is it alright if I come in? As you’ve noticed, I come bearing gifts."

Richie spares a glance at Eddie, who looks ambivalent about the situation, and steps aside to let Mike in. Mike pours a glass for each of them, neat, and settles into one of the chairs by the fireplace. 

“So, do you two have anything else planned for your honeymoon?”

Again, Richie looks to Eddie for an answer, but Eddie keeps the same vague expression, sipping his drink.

“We’re kind of just going with whatever sounds good at the time,” Richie answers. “Keeps it exciting.”

A long, awkward silence follows, in which they all look at each other expectantly.

“Okay, let me be honest,” Mike says abruptly. “I don’t want you to think I came here with different intentions. This is nice, hanging out with you both and you’re both great to be around. But...I came here because, well, there’s something I’ve never told anyone about myself. It might be weird, but I feel comfortable telling you, and Eddie, and hopefully I’ll be able to tell everyone else soon.” Mike pauses, finishes his drink and carefully sets the glass on the table. "Okay, here it goes: I’m gay.” 

From the bed, Eddie mutters, “Welcome to the club, buddy.” 

Mike exhales and the tension leaves his shoulders. “Did you both- have you both been out for a long time?”

“Since I was 12,” Richie says, taking the seat next to him. “I don’t think many people were surprised.”

Mike looks at Eddie for his input and Eddie shrugs. “I never had anyone to come out to. I don’t think anyone cared that much about me.” 

Richie has the urge to do what’s natural to him, to cross the room and pull Eddie into a hug, but Mike is reaching for him now, keeping him in place with a gentle hand on his arm.

“I just buried it under everything else, like my  _ image _ and my success. I felt worse because hiding it actively  _ helped _ my career in some ways. But, I can’t help but think that if I was open about who I really am and what I really want, I could be so much better for other people.... And that’s so awful, that I’m thinking about strangers, hypothetical ones at that, before myself. It would be good for  _ me _ if I was more open and honest.” Mike looks at the unlit fireplace, his fingers closing around Richie’s wrist. “I think I’m just- I’m worried that after all this time being in the closet, I couldn’t possibly find someone to want me, at this age, knowing nothing real about love-”

Mike’s voice begins to break, and Richie shifts his chair closer and leans in with a tentative arm around his shoulders. It must be the exact gesture Mike needed because he crumbles in Richie’s arms, crying unabashedly. His head rests on Richie’s shoulder and words come in between sobs. “I’m just lonely all the time and I’m afraid that I’ll always be. That’s always been my biggest insecurity. I’m afraid of that one the most, I think.” 

Across the room, Eddie watches them closely, his jaw clenched, the empty glass clutched tightly in his hand. 

“Sorry. Oh, man, I’m sorry.” Mike sits up, lifting himself out of the chair. He rushes to wipe the wetness from his eyes as he heads for the door. “I’m leaving in the morning,” he says, plastering on a smile. “It was really nice to meet you, Richie. I mean that. You too, Eddie. Goodnight.”

_ August 7th- Sometimes you meet someone so much like yourself that it feels like looking at your own reflection. _

* * *

On their way out of the resort, they almost miss the envelope taped to the door with their names written on it. Inside, a check for one thousand dollars, Mike’s business card, and a neatly written note reading ‘ _to the happy new couple- keep in touch_.’ 

Richie drives with the windows down on the way out of Sedona, letting the weight of Eddie’s hand on his thigh and introspections of good karma anchor him, distracting him from the meddling feeling he’s forgetting something. 

They leave one Arizona tourist town for another, stopping with the intention of getting lunch and heading back out onto the open road and continuing their aimless journey. But Winslow charms them enough to stay for the whole day— it’s more kitschy than bougie, with its dusty museums, tacky, crowded gift shops, and gimmicky tours in the blistering heat of meteor craters and hidden caves. 

At a laundromat at midnight, with a box of donuts opened over their laps, the question of where they’re going next lingers in the back of In the back of Richie’s mind. Eddie has been more talkative than he has been the past few days, but hasn’t come up with any spontaneous plans or ideas. It leaves Richie waiting, grasping on to the metaphorical string that connects him to Eddie, wondering what’s next in general. The prospect of being a husband still makes him tingle with delight, but now watching Eddie silently binge eat donuts and stare blankly into the distance, the blank slate that is their future triggers just as much unease. 

It's close to one in the morning when they check into a cheap inn, too tired to drive through the night. It’s a stark difference from the 5-star Sedona resort, trading upscale accommodations for questionable stains on the carpet and mold on the ceiling.

Half-naked, cuddled on top of the scratchy sheets with the desert’s warm air coming through the cracked window, Richie smooths his hand up Eddie’s back, tracing circles with his fingertips, eliciting shivers and sighs. If it were realistic, Richie would want to stay here, not speaking, letting stillness envelop them. He’d wear his fingers down to the bone, touching, rubbing, and stroking Eddie into peaceful incoherence, muttering sweet nothings and kissing up the column of Richie’s neck. Richie would roll on top of him, reveling in Eddie’s relieved sigh, allowing their roaming hands to grope with intention. Maybe if Richie kissed him senseless, put a hand between his legs, he’d open up in more ways than one. Babbling with pleasure and clothed in nothing but ecstasy, maybe some tokens of truth would spill out between begs for  _ more, harder,  _ and  _ just like that.  _ Or, maybe Richie would ask, while buried deep and feeling Eddie quake around him, ‘ _What are we doing here? Tell me what’s on your mind, please, I’ll do anything.’ _

Instead, he brushes his lips against Eddie’s forehead and asks, “Where are we headed next?" 

"Anywhere you want to go, baby." Eddie drops his hand to Richie’s waist, dragging his knuckles over Richie’s belly. “Any ideas?”

"You don't have a preference?”

Eddie pauses, offers Richie a shrug and continues trailing his curious fingers along the hair on Richie’s navel. "I kind of like just running around with you."

"What if...what if we didn't run around? Like, what if we stayed in one place?" Richie sucks in a breath, his chest going tight. This feels like such a huge admission, even though Eddie knows all about Richie’s desire to settle down. "We can stay in one place...together."

The room goes quiet, like they’re both holding their breath. Eddie focuses his gaze on his hand, still against Richie’s belly, and shifts an inch away that feels like miles between them. "I'm so used to running." 

"But haven't you found what you're looking for?" Richie asks, not caring how needy it sounds. 

"Yeah, I have,” Eddie blinks and finds Richie’s eyes again, his lips twitching into a lopsided smile. “I knew when we met." 

"So?" 

The smile is gone as quickly as it came, replaced with something closer to a grimace and finally, he’s pressing his lips together and averting his gaze. "I think I'm nervous that if we stop, then-" 

"Then what?" Richie questions, stepping on the edge of Eddie’s words.

Eddie goes quiet, and when he speaks again, it seems to be about something entirely different than the topic at hand, “You were so nice to me when we met…it made me so fucking nervous. It still makes me nervous." 

"Why?” Richie asks, his mouth going dry. “Is that a bad thing? Am I  _ too _ nice? Is it weird-" 

"No,” Eddie says, bringing a hand to Richie’s chest, a delicate pressure against his racing heart. “It's just that... _ I'm _ not nice. I'm not a good person like you are." 

Richie’s voice catches in his throat and he talks through the intrusion, searching Eddie’s dark, guarded eyes. "Why would you think that?"

Eddie just stares back at him, keeping all the words trapped firmly behind his tight lips.

"If you weren't a good person, I wouldn't be with you,” Richie says, and it sounds awfully like a plea.

And Eddie gives Richie a tiny flash of a smile, and leans forward to press their lips together hard, licking the seam of Richie’s lips until Richie opens up and gasps into his mouth. They kiss until they’re both too sleepy to keep going, falling asleep half on top of each other.

Throughout the night, Richie awakes periodically to Eddie’s lips on him, coasting up his jaw and at the corners of his mouth. He stirs each time, never enough to open his eyes. Eddie runs his fingers through Richie’s hair and whispers something that could very well be a dream. Once Richie finds his voice, making the distinction between thinking and speaking, he mumbles a tired, “I love you,” and falls asleep again before hearing a response. 

Before Richie even opens his eyes, he feels something missing. The room is silent other than the creaking of the old AC unit. Eddie isn’t in bed next to him, which isn’t unusual on its own. But, when he sits up, rubs his eyes, and looks around at the empty room, dread begins to rise up his throat like bile. 

Eerily calm, he puts on his glasses and sends a quick ‘where are you’ text to Eddie. The read receipt pops up under his message immediately and minutes later, it’s still taunting him.

Richie pads across the room, pulls back the curtains and squints outside, searching the parking lot even though he knows very well that Eddie’s car is gone. Slipping on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, he calls Eddie, his sweaty palm slipping on the phone when the call goes to voicemail. He steps outside with his phone pressed to his ear, listening to the generic voicemail greeting for the third time in a row. Standing in the blistering sun in the parking lot, staring down the road, he sends a few more texts. 

_ Hey if you’re driving can you pull over to call me please? _

_ Eddie? _

_ Where are you?? Are you okay? _

“Are you alright sir?” 

It takes a second for Richie to realize that someone is talking to him. There’s an older woman, stopped at her car door, watching him. Richie catches his reflection in the mirrored window of the woman’s car. He’s pale despite being in the relentless sun for days on end, his eyes are glassy and his hair is matted on one side. “No.” 

On shaky legs, he goes back to the room, jabbing his finger at Eddie’s contact information once more. When he hears the  _ click _ of Eddie picking up, relief floods his bones.

“Hey.”

“Eddie, hey,” Richie rushes out, nearly collapsing onto the bed. “Where are you? Are you okay-?” 

“I’m fine,” he says, and it sounds robotic, not like him.

“Are you- where are you?” Richie asks again.

Eddie sighs now, and it’s not fair that Richie can’t see him, can’t reach out and touch him. “Listen, Richie-” 

“Don’t,” Richie says, because he fucking knows. He knows exactly what this is. His stomach drops, all the memories of every break-up talk he’s ever had simultaneously reemerging to crowd his mind and point a taunting finger at him. ‘ _I told you so,_ ’ they say. ‘ _This always happens._ ’ “No, Eddie, no, no-” 

“I can’t-” 

Richie steels himself, steadying his voice the best he can before speaking. “I’m your  _ husband_, remember?”

For a startling moment, it’s quiet, nothing but Eddie’s breathing on the other end. “Richie…” 

“I hate this,” Richie blurts out. This isn’t the way Eddie usually says his name, like his mouth is full of flowers and candy. This is a goodbye, and Richie realizes, with another sharp ache in his chest that it’s what Eddie had whispered to him last night. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Eddie please— just tell me where you are.”  _ So I can know that you’re safe, so I can find you, so I know you aren't with someone else_, he wants to say. His throat closes around the words, and usually, he’d think it was for the better. But he  _ wants _ to beg, he needs to-

"I can't-"

" _Please_."

“Listen, even if I wanted to tell you where I am, I couldn’t because I don’t even know. I’m lost.” 

_ Me too, _ Richie wants to say. “You didn’t use GPS.” 

Another pause, and then, “I’m somewhere in New Mexico, I think.” 

“New Mexico? Eddie, I-” 

“I love the whole ‘I’m your husband’ thing though, that was sweet,” Eddie says wryly. “Makes me feel like shit, but it’s really sweet.” 

Richie sucks in another shaky breath and it feels like someone has a hand around his lungs. “Are you breaking up with me?” 

“Technically no. My plan was to leave and hope you’d never want to talk to me again.” 

“We’re  _ married_.” 

“I’m sorry, Richie,” Eddie says, and the worst thing about it is that he  _ does _ sound sorry. His words are heavy, and if Richie closes his eyes he can see Eddie’s furrowed brow and sad stare.

"Just tell me what I did wrong. We’ll talk about it, we’ll figure it out I promise.” Richie is met with another stilted silence, so he rambles on, letting panic find a space right beside his sadness and pain. “If I’m smothering you, I’m sorry. I’ll- We don't have to stay in one place. We can run forever, we can do whatever you want."

"That isn't why-" Eddie cuts himself off, leaving nothing but dead air between them.

“Eddie, I-” Richie chokes, and Eddie listens. “I would do anything for you. You know that, right? Just tell me what it is and I’ll-  _fuck_ , Eddie why are you doing this to me?”

“I’m sorry. Bye.” 

"I love you,” Richie says, and it sounds much more desperate than begging. He listens to Eddie breathing over the line and in this silence, he hopes Eddie has more to say. Maybe Eddie is hoping the same thing, hoping for something more than ‘I love you’ to convince him to stay. But Richie can’t read his mind, the closest he’s gotten is touching him, listening carefully to every hitch of his breath.

“Eddie, please-” The beep of the line disconnecting cuts him off and he stays there, the phone hanging limply in his hand. 

He waits, and calls, and waits more, sinking further in his seat every time Eddie doesn’t answer. Finally, the calls begin to go straight to voicemail, and Richie’s mouth is too dry, his throat too raw, his mind too crowded to find words to say.

Richie stands up, passing Eddie’s cowboy hat and the bunch of wilting red roses on the table, and goes to the bathroom. On his knees, retching into the toilet even though he feels as empty as he’s ever been, he thinks that somewhere along the line, the part of his intuition that made him question everything was buried by the part that made it easy to blissfully and blindly follow behind Eddie. The ceaseless buzz of Eddie’s energy roped itself around Richie’s middle, holding him in place, and kept him from drifting away.

Now Eddie is gone and, just like that, Richie is untethered.

_ August 9th- Fuck. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> feel free to yell at me here or on Twitter. bye.


	8. my restless heart would never want to roam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title credit- I Wish I Felt This Way at Home, by Dolly Parton
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: mentions of a gun, references to suicidal ideations.

The sun blazes hot on Richie’s back, burning the unprotected skin above his collar. Shame burns just as hot, coiling and filling the void of loneliness in his chest. 

An overpriced cab ride in the general direction of New Mexico left him standing in a motel lobby, trying to appear marginally less distressed as he asked if an Eddie Kaspbrak-Tozier had checked in recently. He doesn’t know what he would’ve done if Eddie had been there, it was just a futile attempt at moving forward, a grasp at thin air. If Eddie is in New Mexico, and Richie can’t even be sure if he  _is,_ it wouldn’t have mattered if he had stayed at that motel or any of the others Richie had checked in the past two days.

Now, there’s sweat dripping down to Richie’s elbows, and he clutches his bags and Eddie’s abandoned cowboy hat with blistered hands, peering down the road into the boundless desert as if a sign will appear to him in the form of a mirage. Behind him, there's a dilapidated looking gas station with a large handwritten sign taped to the cloudy glass door. ' _ Water Inside- 1$_' Richie lets his thirst carry him across the broken asphalt lot and into the small market. He picks up three bottles of water from the steel tub filled with rapidly melting ice, juggling them in his arms, and stands in line. There's a man ahead of him, looking worse for wear, deep bags under his sharp blue eyes, damp, tangled hair, and chapped lips. He speaks softly and slowly to the cashier, asking if anyone is around to help change a tire. 

"Sorry, sir. It's just me here."

The man nods and slides a five dollar bill across the counter, then points to a lottery ticket. 

Richie buys his waters next, chugs one before he's even out of the door, and stops under the short awning in the shade that provides no relief from the hot air. The man from the shop is parked on the side of the building, next to an air pump with an out of order sign taped to it. He's jamming a tire jack under his car, grunting and cursing to himself. “Shit,” he mutters, tossing the jack aside. He puts his hands on his hips and looks up to the sky, straight into the sun.

"Hey," Richie says, fumbling with his bags as he approaches the man. "Do you need help?"

The man looks warily at Richie, his mouth in a tight line. He looks young, something about his glassy eyes and ruddy cheeks against smooth, pale skin.

"I know I look useless when it comes to cars and I am, sort of," Richie says. "But, I overheard you in there, and thought I could help."

Nodding, the man motions to the tire jack and the flat tire.

Richie thinks of Eddie when he’s gripping the crank of the tire jack and using all of his weight to turn it. While he’s rotating the crank, he imagines Eddie at work, in his own auto repair shop, operating heavy machinery with ease, creating new calluses, covered in sweat and motor oil and lying under the frame of cars for hours at a time. Richie would run him a bath when he got home, rub his back, ask him about his day-

The man changes out the damaged tire for a brand new one, tightening the lug nuts with clumsy hands. Richie helps him with the jack again, turning the rusty crank with all of his effort.

"Thank you,” the man says, holding out his dirty hand for Richie to shake. 

Richie takes it, noticing bruised and bloodied knuckles, and something somber settles between them. The man’s grip is weak, pulling away before Richie can decide if he’s as sad as he feels. "No problem. I'm Richie, by the way." 

"Bill." 

"Nice meeting you, Bill,” Richie says, and adds a chuckle to lighten the mood. “Hopefully your tire doesn't fly off on the highway because of me." 

Bill smiles a little, barely a flash before it’s gone, and looks at Richie's bags. "Hitchhiking?" 

"Not necessarily." 

“Oh.” Bill scratches his head. "Do you need a ride?" 

Richie glances at his surroundings— at the rate he's going, he'll be in Arizona for another few days, and he can't afford to lose that much time. He feels like he's chasing the ghost of Eddie's energy and the farther Eddie feels, the more it fades from where it has been nestled under Richie's skin. 

"Are you headed through New Mexico at all?"

Bill nods and wordlessly dumps the jack and ruined tire into the trunk. Richie puts his bags in the back as well and walks around the car to slide into the passenger's seat. “Thank you so much.”

In the quiet of the hot car, Richie's mind races and he tries to focus on anything else— the sprawling desert landscape, the dusty dashboard, the rattling engine. Bill drives with the radio off, exacerbating Richie’s unorganized and spiraling thoughts. There’s sadness radiating off of him in waves, the same calm resignation of pain that Richie feels. Richie can see it on him too, in his down-turned lips, his heavy-lidded eyes, and slumped shoulders as if there’s a physical weight pulling at him. Richie looks at him unwaveringly, as if he could absorb the heaviness to bury his own.

"My husband left me,” Richie says instead, and it feels like vomiting razor blades. “Literally. He left me stranded at a hotel."

"I'm sorry," Bill mutters flatly, without even an apologetic glance.

"We've only been married a week. Or were, I don't know what's going on." 

Bill hums, watching the road, and Richie looks ahead too, focusing on broken yellow lines.

"We've been together for…" Richie trails off, counting on his fingers. "Two weeks? 15 days? Maybe more? He left his fiance for me...I realize that sounds bad out loud. And I know it’s crazy that we even got married, I know that, but...I don't actually-...I'm fine with it. It's unconventional and I'm okay with that."

Bill's silence spurs on Richie's restlessness, urging him to fill the space.

"Maybe I should have seen this coming. He only knew me for a month before he left his fiance for me. And maybe...I deserve it, what I’m feeling right now. I'm a homewrecker. I know it doesn’t make it okay that he left me, but-"

He swallows down the razor blades slicing his throat, letting them sit with his nausea and fear, and it feels even worse than ripping himself open for the sake of catharsis. It feels even worse than Eddie giving him a ring and leaving him to wither away alone. Shrinking in his seat, he turns his criticism inwards, where it deserves to be. 

“I was in over my head, or something. Actually, no, I'm just a jackass. The bar was so low for me that the second I felt something good, something  _ different_, I just fucking ran with it. I knew I was wrapped up in him, I just didn’t realize how much until he left and that...that scares the shit out of me, honestly. Fuck, it’s been a day and it feels like a year. I hate this, I’m so fucking pathetic." 

The road stretches on ahead of them, empty, and Richie has never felt so alone.

"I really thought we were good,” Richie continues, squeezing his eyes shut. “I thought we fit so fucking well. Yes, I had some questions, okay. It wasn’t perfect all the time. But, they were never _ doubts_. I had just thought I was overthinking everything like I always do. But, no matter what I always felt, and I still do, I think, that wherever I am with him is where I'm meant to be. It felt like being on the right track for once in my shitty life, it felt like I was  _ good _ and that I could- I know it’s crazy, I know, I  _ know_ ... but I love him and I thought he- I don't know. I just thought I was done with being naive and overlooking shit just because it’s convenient." 

It isn't the first time Richie has scolded himself over his naivety— he was an expert at it when he was younger, and it’s a talent you never lose. He's familiar with this, picking himself apart like fresh scabs and pretending to be shocked at the blood that bubbles to the surface. It never feels good, but sometimes it’s the only way to remind himself not to accept the constant onslaught of pain and abuse from people who claimed to love him.

Bill’s voice is quiet under the crunch of the road and rattling car. “Can I...give you my opinion?” 

Richie opens his eyes, lifting his glasses to wipe the tears threatening to fall. "Yeah, sure." 

"If you found happiness... and you felt that strongly about it...it matters.”

Richie turns away, watching the red rocks get smaller in the rear view mirror. “Do you believe in karma?” 

Out of the corner of Richie's eye, he sees Bill shake his head.

“I do,” Richie admits. “Even if it’s in a roundabout indirect way…I like helping people and yeah, sometimes it’s just as much for me as it is for the other person. It makes  _ me _ feel good. But...I hate to think that, in a way, I’ve just been waiting for something else. Something else good to come around after putting out so much...I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

“Want a cigarette?” Bill asks, and the abruptness makes Richie laugh.

He hasn’t had a cigarette in over a decade, huddled in front of a bar with a guy who smoked too many and made Richie’s heart beat too fast.

“Yeah, why not.”

Bill pats his pockets, glances at the center console, then points to the glove compartment.

Richie pops it open and right next to the new pack of cigarettes, half concealed by a folded stack of papers, is a handgun. He pauses, letting his shock pass, then snatches the cigarettes and slams the compartment closed, clearing his throat. 

“Lighter?” he asks, peeling open the pack with shaky fingers and taking out a single cigarette.

Bill motions to the center console again and holds his hand out for the pack. Richie hands it over without making eye contact, and sticks the cigarette between his lips. 

Once he’s breathing in the warm, bitter smoke, he looks at Bill with a question on the tip of his tongue. Bill looks straight ahead, not meeting Richie’s gaze, clenches his jaw, and exhales smoke through his nose. 

The question gets trapped behind Richie’s teeth, smothered by smoke. Richie looks ahead, takes a deep breath, hoping it can smother his sadness too.

* * *

Behind the wheel, Bill yawns and squints against the headlights of oncoming traffic. They’ve only been driving for a few hours, with no visual indication that they’re getting closer to New Mexico other than the highway signs, but the sun is setting and Bill’s yawn is contagious.

“Tired?” Richie asks, stifling another yawn.

Bill nods, rubbing his eyes.

Richie points to a food and lodging sign up ahead. “We can stop to eat? Get some rest?”

Bill shakes his head. “I don’t have money.”

“My treat,” Richie says.

They end up at the kind of roadside diner that serial killers frequent, having a dinner of greasy burgers and fries. Bill stays silent for the entire meal other than a mumbled ‘thank you,’ and scribbles words on a wrinkled napkin. They’re small and messy, some of them ripping the fragile canvas.

“You’re a writer?” Richie asks, using his own napkin to rid his fingers of grease. Bill looks up at him, looking startled, and Richie backtracks. “Or, nevermind. You don’t have to tell me.”

“Yeah,” Bill mutters, glancing down at the napkin. “Poetry, I guess. It’s bad.”

Richie smiles at him, a warm familiarity about Bill’s insecure tone. “Can I read it?”

Bill shrugs and slides it across the table, returning to his unfinished fries. ”I don't usually." 

"But?" Richie prompts, but only gets another shrug in return. 

Squinting to decipher the small words, Richie reads. ‘ _Going, going, going to meet you where you are, if it’s even a place at all. If you knew that my emptiness didn’t hurt as much anymore, it would scare you. If I could tell you-’ _

The rest is scratched out, just a hole in the napkin where words once were. Richie slides it back across the table, noting that Bill doesn’t seem too bothered about letting Richie read something so personal. He nibbles at a limp french fry, folding the napkin with one hand and putting it in his pocket.

“Are you…?” Richie starts tentatively. “Where are you headed after New Mexico?”

“Nowhere,” Bill says, dropping the uneaten fry with the rest. He pushes the plate aside and looks at the booths lining the wall next to them. 

Richie chews his lip, studying Bill’s stoic expression. He’s building a brick wall around himself right before Richie’s eyes, likely realizing he has said too much. 

“Why do you need a gun?” 

It isn’t completely out of the ordinary that Bill has a gun in his glove compartment— it’s legal in Arizona to openly carry a gun, after all. Still, the knowledge makes Richie queasy. Bill is a stranger, and Richie has no right to know this man’s intentions or plans, but something about Bill’s apparent misery sets alarm bells ringing in Richie’s head.

Bill looks at Richie, and his expression sags as much as his shoulders. His eyes begin to water and Richie knows, without having to ask. The thick, tar-like energy wrapping around his lungs tells him all he needs to know. 

Richie’s heart sinks and Bill slips a lottery ticket out of his pocket, using a blunt nail to scratch it. Predictably, it’s a dud. Bill folds the useless scrap of paper and puts it back in his pocket.

"What were your plans if you had won?" Richie asks.

"Leave it all to my parents,” Bill answers, dropping his gaze to the table. He tugs at the dry skin on his lip with his teeth. “My, um...my little brother died. And, since then I’ve been sort of... lost.”

“I’m sorry,” Richie says. He can’t say he knows that feeling, losing someone in such an irrevocable way. He has only felt the raw pain of grief through lying silently with people experiencing loss in all its forms, doing the best he can to balance it out with something positive or to hold it for them, if only for a short time, and he isn’t sure that’s enough.

“Yeah- and I just thought, maybe I should- that I would- rather not be-” Bill chokes up, abandoning the rest, and flicks his gaze up to meet Richie’s.

Richie searches Bill’s wet eyes, his grief on full display now. Closing his eyes, Bill sighs wearily and ducks his head into his hands, hiding his face. Richie gets up and sits next to him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. Bill flinches at the touch at first, then drops his shaking hands to the table. He relaxes into the touch like someone who has never been touched like this before, reluctantly and slowly. He cries silently, deflating in his seat as tears roll down his cheeks, and doesn’t pull away when Richie places a hand on top of his. 

The moon is out when they leave the diner, and Richie suggests they get a motel for the night. Bill agrees with a wordless nod, and drives them to the nearest broken down, roadside inn.

Inside the stuffy room, Bill toes off his shoes and climbs into one of the double beds, stil in his jeans, and pulls the covers over his body. 

Richie turns off the light and says goodnight into the quiet room. Bill doesn’t respond, and in the silence, Richie hears him snoring already.

As much as he silently begs for it, sleep doesn’t come to Richie when he lies down and closes his eyes. He sees Eddie behind his eyelids, stone-faced, driving too fast. Then, he sees Bill, alone in his car, holding a gun in his lap. Startlingly, Richie pictures Bill being found with nothing but a lottery ticket and a scribbled poem— _ a suicide note_ —in his pocket.

Richie sits up, turning on the light. Bill continues to snore, lying still under the stiff motel blanket. Quietly, Richie puts on his shoes and tip-toes across the room to slide Bill’s keys off the table.

Outside, the night is just as quiet. Richie can hear his heartbeat in his ears and his heavy footsteps on the asphalt as he makes his way to Bill’s car. The door creaks when he opens it, and he winces as if the noise would somehow wake Bill from across the parking lot. 

He opens the glove compartment and the gun is still there, its matte black standing out against crumpled white papers. Swallowing down fear, Richie picks it up. It’s foreign in his hand, too heavy and dangerous, the suggestion of it making his stomach turn. Tucking it awkwardly in his waistband, he shuts the glove compartment, and the car door, and walks back to the room.

Once the gun is packed away in his backpack, Richie takes off his shoes and sits on the edge of the bed, watching Bill’s sleeping form. 

If karma exists, he isn’t sure where this will lead him.

_August 11th- Perspective is a funny, terrible thing... I hope Bill finds the peace he's looking for. _

* * *

Some time after sunrise, over a silent meal of stale bagels and black coffee in the passenger’s seat of Bill’s car, Richie thinks of the gun in his backpack. He wonders if in the lonely, blurry period between late night and early morning, Bill will reach for it and find it missing. He wonders if in that inevitable moment, he’ll know that it was Richie’s doing. He wonders if Bill would be angry, because it wasn’t Richie’s responsibility to take that power away from him. He hopes Bill understands.

Bill hasn’t said much more than good morning, looking as sad as he did last night. Richie spends a good chunk of his money to fill Bill’s gas tank and they cross the border to New Mexico and drive straight through for hours, with dread rising in Richie’s throat. They’re parting ways soon, having decided to stop before reaching Albuquerque. When Richie asks, for the second time, where Bill is going, Bill says he doesn’t know. Richie doesn’t press further, deciding that not knowing is better than the definite and bleak  _ nowhere_. Even without the gun, nothing is guaranteed once they part. All Richie can do is hope that something changes, though he knows how permanent pain seems when you’re in the thick of it.

It’s mid-afternoon when they stop in the parking lot of a convenience store across from a bus station. Leaving is on his mind, but only as a last resort. Eddie could be anywhere in the state— if he hasn’t stopped at all, he could even be in Texas or Colorado by now. The chances of finding him continue to dwindle as time passes, and there’s nothing Richie can do to rid himself of the churning in his stomach. Eddie hasn’t been answering calls or texts, leaving Richie no trail to follow, no choice but to hop from hotel to hotel, bar to bar, and everywhere in between to look for him. It might be futile, but leaving without trying would feel worse.

Richie pulls his bags out of the trunk, shrugging on the backpack and fidgeting with the suitcase handle that broke somewhere between Winslow and the border of New Mexico. Bill is standing beside the car when he closes the trunk, making him jump. “Shit, you’re quiet.”

Bill flashes a tiny smile, and surprises Richie by pulling him into a tight hug. He pulls away quickly, but keeps Richie at arms length, a hand on each of Richie’s biceps. “Good luck.”

Richie is shocked at the warmth he feels in the embrace, but there’s still enough despair in Bill's expression to drown in. “You too,” Richie says, wishing he could say more, wishing things were different and he could beg Bill to promise not to hurt himself. Instead, he takes off his backpack, pulls a pen and a scrap of paper out of the front pocket, and writes down his number. “If you need anything, call me. Or, text me. I mean it.”

Bill looks at the paper like it’s made of gold, and sounds earnest when he says, “Thank you.” 

“Thank  _you,_ ” Richie says. “For the ride and listening to all my bullshit.”

Bill shrugs, reaches out to pat Richie’s shoulder, and gets back into the car. Richie waves at him though the rear window, figuring it’s as close to ‘goodbye’ he’ll get.

The convenience store is busy, packed with travelers coming from and going to the bus station and nearby freeway. Richie trudges through the narrow aisles, dragging his suitcase, looking for the things on his short list. Deodorant, headphones, gum-

Richie stops in his tracks, his heart jumping into his throat. “Eddie.”

A speaker somewhere above his head plays a staticy pop song, behind him, the beverage fridge opens, cooling the sweat on his back, and in front of him, surrounded by a halo of fluorescent like a fucking dream, Eddie stands, holding a shopping basket stacked with packaged donuts, clutching a pack of gummy worms, and wearing Richie’s Sonic Youth shirt.

Richie says his name again, barely a decibel louder than before.

Eddie stares back, looking very much like a deer in the headlights, drops the basket, and runs. 

“What the hell-” Richie drops his bag and runs after him, weaving through the line extending to the back of the store. Eddie cuts corners, narrowly avoiding knocking over people and displays, and heads for the back door. Finding it locked, he bangs his fist against it and spins around to face Richie, blocked in. He freezes, and though the fire in his eyes melts into something softer, he keeps his jaw clenched and arms crossed over his chest. Suddenly, all the flowery fantasies Richie had of sweeping Eddie up into his arms and begging him to forgive a relationship crime he doesn’t even recall committing seem silly. Now, he has the awful urge to hold Eddie down and kiss him into submission, until he’s breathing every previously unsaid word and promising to never leave again. He wants to shout, he wants to cry, he wants to cut himself open and show Eddie just how filled with worry, fear, and hurt he is. But, the second he opens his mouth to speak, Eddie averts his gaze and barrels forward, stepping aside to duck under Richie’s arm.

Richie turns, picking up his pace to block Eddie’s path again, cutting him off at the end of an aisle. This time, when Eddie tries to charge ahead, Richie wraps both arms around his waist, picks him up, and literally puts him over his shoulder. Of course, Eddie doesn’t let this happen without a fight. He kicks and thrashes, grabbing things from shelves and throwing them to the floor, making such a scene that everyone in the store stops and looks at them. One woman in particular, looking gravely concerned, takes out her phone and asks, “Should I call the police?” 

“I’m fine,” Eddie groans, finally going limp. “He’s my husband.” 

Richie steadies himself, steps around the woman and the mess Eddie made, and heads for the exit. As he passes the gawking customers, Richie notes that not only is he exhausted and mildly embarrassed, he’s actually pissed.

The audacity of Eddie to leave the way he did, and then to look Richie in the eye and try to do it again without a single word of explanation. Despite all they’ve shared through touch alone, Richie can’t pretend he knows what Eddie is thinking. He can’t pretend he knows how Eddie felt when he left or even how he’s feeling now as Richie carries him like an obstinate child. But, he knows his own feelings are just as valid, even if they’re fueled by desperation under the guise of devotion. Maybe Richie is out of line here, but he knows that none of this is okay, no matter how he tries to rationalize it or break it apart to put into neat little compartments. Maybe it’s meant to be ugly. Maybe to come back together, they have to suffer through this harsh and unexpected storm first.

At the exit, another person stops them to ask Eddie if he's alright, and Richie finds himself hissing at them, “He’s my  _ husband_."

"I'm his husband," Eddie echoes, and when Richie pauses to look both ways before crossing into the parking lot, he uses this opportunity to slip out of Richie's hold, only to be pulled back into a tight hold. The forced hug quickly turns into a clumsy grappling match— Richie snakes his arms around Eddie and Eddie pushes him away, cursing when Richie gets another hand on him.

A man steps out of the store and makes it his duty to announce: "That man is beating his husband." 

Eddie pulls his wrists out of Richie's grasp, looking truly offended. "He's not  _ beating _ me. He would never- get a grip, sir." 

"Excuse me, can you just-" Richie glares at the stranger and grabs Eddie again, both hands on his shoulders. "I'm handling this, alright?" 

"Yeah," Eddie says, swatting at Richie's hands. "Mind your motherfucking business."

Richie pitches forward, looping his arms under Eddie's armpits, and when Eddie steps backwards, the momentum sends them both to the ground with Eddie flat on his back and Richie on top of him. 

Eddie coughs, shoving at Richie's chest. He’s red in the face, determination set in the deep furrow of his brow. It’s unfair that he looks as striking as ever like this, frowning, his deep dimples on display, his teeth bared. “Just leave me!” 

Panting, Richie sits on Eddie’s belly, putting his weight to good use, and holds him still by the wrists. “You can’t just marry me and run.”

Eddie bucks his hips, grunting in frustration, and tries to pull out of Richie’s grip. “Well, I did it, didn’t I?”

“Do you want to be with me?” Richie asks, holding Eddie’s wrists firmly to his chest. “Did you  _ ever _ want to be with me or was I just a fucking-” 

Eddie answers breathlessly, on the heels of Richie’s words, “Yes, I want to be with you, Richie, I-” 

“Then what the fuck are you doing?” Richie asks, and his voice is raw, cracking right down the middle. “Why are you running from me? What the fuck did I do to deserve-” 

“I’m trying to do you a fucking favor!” 

"A  _ favor_…?” Blood rushes to Richie’s face and suddenly, he’s seething. He snatches at Eddie’s shirt—  _ his _ shirt— and shakes him. “Fine! If you want to leave me, fuck it, I don’t care. But give me my fucking shirt back first! It's the least you can do!" 

Eddie rips Richie’s hands away and swats at him, knocking his glasses askew, then shoves him hard, sending him tumbling backwards on the concrete. He stands up, takes off the shirt, and throws it in Richie’s lap. “Take your fucking shirt! I don’t even like Sonic Youth!” 

"Wait." Richie scrambles to his feet with regret sinking in his stomach like a brick, and reaches for Eddie’s hand.

“Fuck you,” Eddie spits, flinching away. Then he turns, and walks away without another word. Richie follows him through the lot and to his car, watching Eddie slide into the driver’s seat without a single glance in his direction.

"You can’t leave me without telling me why,” Richie says, tugging on the door’s handle. 

Eddie’s voice is muffled through the window as he jams the keys into the ignition and keeps his eyes straight ahead. “I told you why.” 

“Not good enough.” Richie raps his knuckles on the window and tugs the handle again. “Open the door. We need to talk about this.” 

“No we don’t,” Eddie answers simply, starting the car. “Fuck off and leave me alone.”

Richie knocks on the window once more, his frustration building and threatening to explode, then moves to stand in front of the car. Eddie stares him down through the windshield, revs the engine, and the car lurches forward. Richie doesn't budge, he stays put and braces himself with his hands on the hood. 

"Eddie,” he says, “You're being an asshole." 

Eddie closes his eyes and revs the engine again, but Richie can see his hard expression crumbling. 

Richie slams his fist on the sun scorched hood. “Don’t you fucking do this to me! I know you don’t mean it. Eddie,  _ please_-” 

“Fuck!” Eddie shouts, his lips quivering.

Then, the engine halts, and Eddie drops his head against the steering wheel, sliding a hand up to the dashboard to drop the keys. The door opens and for a moment Richie waits, until he realizes this is meant to be a surrender. Richie steps into the alcove between the open door and the car parked next to them and kneels on the hot, gritty, asphalt. Eddie turns in his seat and falls into Richie’s arms, sobbing. “It’s okay,” Richie says, “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.” He says it over and over again, digging his blunt nails into the bare skin of Eddie’s back, letting tears soak through his shirt. 

“I’m sorry,” Eddie cries, and Richie feels it like a punch in the throat.

“It’s okay,” Richie says, fighting back his own tears in favor of holding space for Eddie’s. “I’m here. I love you.”


	9. I'll ply the tar out of your feathers, I'll pluck the thorns out of your feet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title credit- be mine by R.E.M.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: extremely irresponsible use of a firearm, accident resulting in minor injury

Stumbling into a hotel room no better or cleaner than the last, they cling to each other, attached from their mouths down to their hips, where Eddie presses them together eagerly, shattering the tension of the car ride. “I love you,” Richie says, right against Eddie’s lips. Eddie keeps him too close to say more, licking the smooth edges of Richie’s front teeth and darting his tongue inside to lick the roof of his mouth. Richie’s hands drag up Eddie’s spine and wrap around his ribs, rucking up the wrinkled Sonic Youth shirt.

Eddie squeezes a palm between them, teasing at Richie’s waistband.

“I love you,” Richie says again, as Eddie walks them backwards towards the bed. 

“Yeah,” Eddie says, and shoves Richie back, crawling up the bed to straddle his waist. Richie settles into the lumpy mattress, steadying Eddie with a hand on his hip. He tugs at the stretched out collar of his shirt— _Richie’s_ shirt — and pulls it over his head for the second time today, then drops his hands to fumble with Richie’s fly.

“Hey.” Richie says, and Eddie looks up, finally meeting Richie’s eyes. “I love you.”

Eddie slides his hands underneath Richie’s t-shirt, trailing heat up his belly and chest that reaches all the way up to his neck and cheeks. Richie shivers, and Eddie smirks a little, seeming to delight in the furious blush on Richie’s pale skin. 

“I love you,” Richie says once more, and his stomach ties itself in knots when Eddie responds with nothing more than a forced smile and a hand shoved down the front of Richie’s jeans.

Richie closes his fingers around Eddie’s wrist. “Stop.” Eddie stops, bats his eyelashes, and kisses Richie’s knuckles gingerly.

“Did you not miss me?”

“Of course I missed you," Richie says, and it physically pains him not to give in to Eddie’s big doe eyes. It pains him more to choke back the question he truly wants to ask. It’s in the back of his throat, threatening to crawl up to the tip of his tongue. Once it’s there, there would be no stopping it, and once it’s out, he’d be forced to hear the answer. Keeping his mouth shut might be safer, hoping and praying the truth will come out on his own, so that even if it feels like an axe to the heart, he could say it wasn’t self inflicted. At least he could say he didn’t have to drag it out of Eddie like a dark secret. “I just…I need to know why you left me.”

Eddie hunches in Richie’s lap, crossing his arms to cover his bare chest. His eyes are wide and serious, dancing around a bit before finding Richie’s again. "I got scared. I’m sorry." 

“It’s okay, Eddie. I promise.” Richie sits up, wrapping his arms around Eddie’s waist. "I'm scared too, but god I love you so fucking much, you dont need to be scared with me, you can tell me anything." 

Eddie closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Richie’s. "Anything?" 

"Anything, Eddie." 

“I-,” Eddie takes a shaky breath and chews his kiss-swollen lower lip. “I feel like you’re too good for me.” 

“I’m not,” Richie could laugh at that. He hasn’t ever felt _too good_ for anyone. Hell, he barely managed to feel _good enough_ for anyone or himself, for that matter. “Eddie... you’re the best thing that has ever happened to me.” 

“Okay,” Eddie says and nods, slowly as if he’s considering this, tracing a heart with his fingertip on Richie’s chest. “But... what happens when you’re not excited by me anymore?” 

“Eddie,” Richie sighs, and Eddie sighs too, something deep and miserable. 

“Richie-”

“Don’t,” Richie tells him, cupping a hand at the nape of his neck. He rolls them over, bracketing Eddie’s thighs with his knees. “Don’t say anything.”

Eddie digs his fingers into Richie’s hips and Richie kisses him, just once, releasing all of his weight against Eddie’s chest. He goes pliant just like the first time they did this, when Eddie had looked at him sheepishly and asked for something he thought was out of line, breathing hard through his nose. In place of unresolved sexual tension and nervous energy, there’s an undercurrent of desperation and pleading, all the words unsaid getting tangled in their invisible tether to create a quiet electrical storm.

“I love you,” Richie whispers, his lips brushing Eddie’s.

Eddie wraps his arms tighter around Richie’s waist, closes his eyes, and falls asleep.

_August 12th- Caring for Eddie feels like breathing air directly into his lungs in spite of my own. Then, it makes gratification bloom in the empty cavity of my ribs. Maybe, I don’t need to breathe. Smother me, I whisper silently to myself as I wrap my arms around him and wait until our embrace feels like home again. This is good. This is where I’m supposed to be. This is love ~~,~~_ ~~_isn’t it?_~~

* * *

Richie does not wake up with kisses on his cheeks, giggles, and feather light touches tickling his ears and trailing down his neck, nor does he wake up to flowers or candy or the blurry image of Eddie stepping into the room with an armful of snacks, smiling fondly at him.

Richie wakes up with Eddie sitting on top of him, pointing a gun right between his eyes. 

Plainly, and with a quirk of his brow, Eddie says, “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Richie responds, and Eddie’s eyes narrow. Though Richie knows, with his entire heart and soul, that Eddie would never shoot him, his fight or flight response has opted out, leaving him frozen instead. He licks his lips, swallows the dryness in his mouth. “Planning a murder-suicide?” 

Eddie touches the cool tip of the gun against Richie’s forehead and asks, cooly, “Are _you_ planning a fucking murder-suicide? Why do you have a gun in your backpack?” 

“I took it from someone who didn't need it." 

"Okay…” Eddie draws the gun back, but only by a centimeter. “And?" 

"That’s it,” Richie answers, because it’s the truth and he isn’t sure it’s the right time to go through an entire moral checklist to explain his reasons for stealing a gun.

Eddie opens his mouth, then snaps it shut and looks rather timid when he says, “You aren’t scared.” 

Richie shakes his head. “You wouldn't shoot me." 

"You wouldn't shoot me either,” Eddie says, but keeps the gun pointed steadily at Richie’s head.

Richie looks past the gun and focuses on Eddie’s dark eyes, which are more dangerous and persuasive than any weapon could be. "Why are you looking through my backpack?” 

Eddie traps his tongue between his teeth, sucks in a breath. “You’ve been writing in your diary about me.” 

“It’s not a diary-” 

“Journal,” Eddie corrects quickly, not unkindly. “Whatever.” 

“I have been, yeah.” 

“You're in love with me,” Eddie says, and it’s a question without really asking. 

Richie raises his left hand and wiggles his ring finger. 

Eddie blinks at the gold band, and says slowly, “You trust me.”

“Um-” Richie squints at him. “Have we not been over this?" 

"I'm just making sure." 

“By putting a gun to my head?” Richie questions, and lets out a long exhale when Eddie lowers the weapon. "We're married, Eddie. We have each other's last names. I didn’t do it just for the sake of doing it or, like, because I’m after your _money-_ " 

Eddie rolls his eyes, smirking. "My money, pshh-" 

"I did it because I love you,” Richie finishes, and pulls Eddie down for a kiss before he's met with the silence that’s sure to follow.

They get lost in the kiss, and it’s close to normal, _their_ normal, but there's something off-center about it. They're all jagged edges, instead of pliable flesh readily slotting together. As they hum into the kiss, pressing close like they could force themselves back into the spaces they carved out for each other, Richie mourns the pieces of them that were lost or damaged when Eddie left Richie stranded in a dirty motel.

Eddie pulls away, holding the gun between them. He fiddles with it and top slides open, revealing a bullet in the chamber. Richie hadn’t even checked if it was loaded, didn’t even think to do it, and the new information makes him go a little cold. Eddie, on the other hand, coos at this. “Have you ever used one?” 

“No,” Richie says. “Have you?”

“No.” Eddie turns the weapon over in his hands, then points it at the window, peering down the barrel like a villain in a movie. “I've always wondered what it felt like. It feels kind of...cool." 

“Does it?” Richie asks, his eyes following the gun as its waved around carelessly. 

“Yeah,” Eddie says, flashing a smile, and puts the gun in his mouth. 

Richie’s first instinct is to flinch, but then Eddie smiles around the gun, his teeth scraping the barrel, and he finds himself looking up at Eddie with rapt attention, his heart racing. Eddie watches Richie watching, his finger dangerously close to the trigger, and something strange happens. Under Eddie’s weight in his lap, watching him slide the matte black metal over his tongue and into the back of his throat, Richie gets hard.

“You’re kind of fucked up, aren’t you?” Richie asks, as if it isn’t equally fucked up for him to be moderately turned on by this. 

Eddie laughs, loud and abrupt, points the gun back to Richie’s head, and rolls his hips to grind against Richie’s lap. “Something like that, yeah.” 

Richie grins. “Should have told me that before we got married.” 

Eddie grins right back and grinds down harder, making Richie hiss. “Fuck.” Richie shuts his eyes, giving in to the rush of being controlled, the thrill of Eddie holding him hostage. Eddie Kaspbrak-Tozier has him, literally, figuratively, and in every way in between, and they both know it.

“Look at me,” Eddie says, and Richie does, letting his eyes flutter open. There’s gentleness in Eddie’s expression, something playful dancing in his eyes. For a second, it looks like there are three words on his lips, but it turns out it’s only wishful thinking. “You want me to make you come?”

“No,” Richie says, surprising himself. He wraps a hand around the gun, slips it out of Eddie’s grasp, and sets it aside. He places a hand on either side of Eddie’s face, urging him closer. “Come here.”

He kisses Eddie again, close-lipped and rough, and presses his thumbs into Eddie’s temples, rubbing them in circles.

“Oh, babe,” Eddie sighs, already trembling, “that feels so good.”

Richie cradles his head, rubs three more firm circles against his temples, dragging up into his hairline, down behind his ears, and finally along his jawline before pulling Eddie’s lower lip down with the tip of his thumb. Eddie shivers, closing his mouth around the digit, and Richie tucks his other fingers into the hair at the nape of Eddie’s neck, tugging gently. A moan tumbles out of him and his unfocused eyes watch Richie in disbelief. Richie stares back and thinks, _‘I have you, too.’_ Eddie gets harder against Richie’s hip, and Richie massages all the sensitive pressure points in his skull, keeping him here, hanging on to this and only this. Pride blooms in Richie’s chest at how easily Eddie turns to putty in his hands, but there’s power too, which is something Richie never thought he’d enjoy. He traps one leg between Eddie’s pressing it up against his hard length, and Eddie starts to fall apart. In his wildest, newest fantasy, this is how Eddie says ‘I love you’ for the first time. 

“Richie,” Eddie breathes, slow and thick like honey. He squeezes his eyes shut, ruts against Richie’s thigh, trembling and whimpering before going still and limp against his chest. Richie kisses his slack mouth and keeps him close until he’s moving again, returning the kiss between contented sighs.

Eventually Eddie sits up and adjusts himself in his boxers, then climbs off the bed on unsteady legs.

“Where are you going?” Richie asks, rolling over to watch him cross the room.

“To the bathroom.” Eddie stops at the bathroom door, turning to smirk at Richie. “I don’t think I’ll fit out of the window, don’t worry.”

“Alright,” Richie chuckles. “I’m clingy. I get it.”

“It’s justified. I’m a flight risk...Anyway, I like it. That you’re clingy.” Eddie leans against the door frame and folds his arms over his chest. “When I was with my ex, I never felt like he actually...wanted me.”

Since watching Eddie run down the steps of his apartment building without looking back, Richie hasn’t thought much about what Eddie’s ex feels. If he’s lying awake at night, wishing Eddie was next to him again. “Has he tried to contact you since you left him?”

Eddie shakes his head. “I’m sure he’s happier now.”

“Did he even love you?”

“No. But he liked to say he did, especially when we were fighting.” Eddie glances at the window, hugging himself tight. “I was desperate. I think I just wanted something good for once. We were just...going through the motions, and I guess I accepted what I thought I deserved. Then, I met you...”

 _And I became a homewrecker,_ Richie thinks. “Yeah.”

“It was inevitable,” Eddie says.

“What was?” Richie asks. “You and I?”

Eddie tilts his head to the side, looking Richie over. “It feels that way, doesn’t it?”

In his lifetime, Richie has spent too much time thinking of fate. Inundated with flowery ideas of true love, Richie sometimes felt he had no choice but to believe in it. He’d read pages and pages of men and women falling in love at first sight, at first touch, at first kiss. It’s hard to look at Eddie and believe this is only serendipity. Maybe all the bullshit they went through separately is what brought them together, even if it means Richie is a homewrecker and Eddie is a cheater. The same tacky romance novels that informed the majority of Richie’s ideas of love often chronicled steamy, overdramatic love triangles, which he would turn his nose up at in disgust while simultaneously thrumming with a quiet excitement. At fifteen, the concept was nothing more than a plot device. Now, he’s here and through the guilt of stealing someone’s lover like a harlot in a red dress, he allows himself to revel in the selfish thought of _‘he’s mine, he’s mine, he’s mine and we’re meant to be together.’_

“I’m happy you picked me.”

“It wasn’t hard to choose. Even before you and I met, I wanted to leave him. You just made my decision easier.”

Anxiety tugs at Richie’s insides— he’s no stranger to the concept of a rebound. Of forcing yourself into a space you don’t fit only because it’s marginally more comfortable than the last. “Is it working out with me?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Eddie says easily, with a slight quirk of his brow. 

He’s here, and he’s smiling, and he makes Richie feel the best he’s ever felt in his life. But, is that enough? “Yeah... I’m glad you’re here,” Richie says. “You deserve good things. I want- I want to be good for you.”

Eddie pauses, chewing his lip, and his expression softens. “I want to be good for you too, Richie.”

“What makes you think you aren’t?”

Eddie shakes his head, and his big, dark eyes and guarded stance make him look even more like a mystery now than he ever has, as if he has gained new layers in the day they were apart.

“Do you want to shower with me and go get food?”

In the bathroom, standing in the shower with Eddie pressed close, time feels skewed. Logically, he knows the date and knows how long they’ve been together, but when he’s here, staring into Eddie’s eyes, he can’t tell if it’s been days or months since they first kissed. Richie plants his feet on either side of Eddie’s and focuses on the slide of their bodies, the trickle of the water from the showerhead. He cradles Eddie’s head in his hand and Eddie lets him, reaching one rough hand out to cup the unshaven plane of Richie’s jaw.

Dripping wet, staring at their reflection in the foggy mirror, he leans into the dizzying feeling of being so in love he forgets what day it is. He kisses the back of Eddie’s damp hair, watching the smile spread across his face, and decides that forcing things to be different isn’t worth it. They’ll lay silently half naked, living on junk food, smoking weed, watching bad TV, and forgetting that the outside world exists. They’ll run forever.

* * *

Cherry ice cream drips off the side of the waffle cone and between Richie’s fingers. Keeping his other hand in Eddie’s back pocket, his licks at the sticky, melted ice cream and holds the cone out for Eddie. They walk through the shopping center, past deserted businesses that look days away from shutting down. As they approach a group of men standing outside of a tattoo shop, Richie instinctively moves to take his hand out of Eddie’s pocket. 

Eddie frowns, licking up the side of the ice cream cone. “No, put it back.”

Richie does, and thankfully, the group disperses before they get close, and they stop in their place, looking into the shop window.

"Why don't you have any tattoos?" Eddie asks. “You’d look hot with a sleeve.”

"I don't know-” Richie laughs, and has to stop himself when he catches sight of how the sun illuminates Eddie from behind, casting a yellow glow around him. “I guess I can't think of anything I'd want forever." 

"What about..." Eddie hums, places his palm on Richie's chest, and spreads his fingers. "A portrait of my face right here." 

"Why would I need that if I can just look at you forever?” 

Eddie grins and says, matter-of-factly. "I won't be this handsome forever." 

"No?” Richie pulls a frown and takes a step back. “Oh, then I want a divorce." 

"Shut up,” Eddie says, and takes his hand to pull him close again. “You know what's fucked up? I have zero frame of reference for how I might look like when I'm old. Like, I can't show you a picture of my dad or grandpa and say 'that's what you're gonna be looking at every day in 20 years.' I never really thought about that until now." 

"I can't do that either,” Richie says. He has no photos of his biological family, and it’s probably for the better. “I remember my biological grandpa a little though. He was good looking, I think." 

"I bet he was a silver fox. Fuck, I can’t wait until you’re 60,” Eddie sighs, to which Richie responds with an eye roll. Then, Eddie smiles, a little sheepish the way he does. “I'd get your face tattooed on me." 

Despite the butterflies in his stomach, Richie says, "I wouldn't want to see my face on your body every day." 

Eddie looks through the window again, mouthing at the rapidly melting ice cream. "What about your name?"

Richie takes the cone, willing it to cool the burning on his cheeks. "My name?" 

Eddie nods and asks, casually, "What if I got your name tattooed on me?" 

"Where?" Richie asks.

“I don’t know.” Eddie shrugs, looking at Richie from the corner of his eye. "Where would you want to see it?" 

Richie doesn’t even have to think about it. He taps his knuckles against Eddie's chest, right over his heart. "That space is taken already though." 

"I could get a tramp stamp?” Eddie turns to Richie fully, grinning wildly. “Property of-" 

"I would never be able to look at your ass again." 

Eddie laughs and when it fades into a sigh, he levels a serious look at Richie and says, with grave certainty: "I'm gonna get your name tattooed on me someday, Richie." 

Richie taps Eddie’s bicep. “It would look good there.”

“Yeah?” Eddie beams, his pupils practically dilated. “Okay.”

"I want one too," Richie says, abruptly. "Of your name." 

“In the same place,” Eddie adds, stroking Richie’s bicep. “We might as well make it super cheesy.”

Richie looks through the window and asks, like he’s proposing a dare, “Why not right now?”

Eddie doesn’t even blink. He takes the ice cream cone from Richie’s hand, tosses it into a nearby trash can, and leads Richie into the shop.

There’s a woman up front with no visible tattoos, smiling pleasantly at them as they talk over each other to explain their requests. In the lobby area, they look at the flash tattoos on the wall as they wait and Eddie mentions, once again, that Richie would look “super fucking hot with a sleeve. Like, all black and grey.”

The tattoo artist, who is covered in colorful tattoos spreading down to her fingertips and up her neck, greets them and brings them both to her station. She shows them the simple designs— neatly drawn hearts with the other’s name inside, written in a clean font— rolls over a little metal cart that looks like something out of a dentist office, and motions for Eddie to hop into the chair. Eddie rolls up his sleeve for her and she preps his skin before applying the stencil, making small talk with him about his other tattoos. Richie sits on the other side of the chair, watching with bated breath as the needle permanently etches his name into Eddie’s skin. 

There’s another artist cleaning his tools at his station a few feet away. He’s thin and bearded with wrinkles around his mouth and eyes, and the carefully trained expression of someone trying to hide their disgust. Richie knows the look well, and part of him wishes he could stare the man down like Eddie would. But, the stories of ‘ _men like him’_ getting harassed and assaulted, men who grew up averting their eyes in locker rooms, has kept him from being confrontational even when it’s warranted. 

Richie slides into the chair next, and Eddie holds his hand, either sensing his nerves about the tattoo or discomfort in the environment. He has a dark look in his eyes, lined with the openness and fondness Richie is used to, his energy buzzing as much as the tattoo gun. The first stroke of the needle hurts, but not nearly as much as Richie expected. It drags over his skin, feeling like a faint cat scratch, and his skin reddens more at each pass. The artist goes over the heart once more, and as the needle goes over the final ‘e’ in Eddie’s name, Eddie picks up Richie’s hand and kisses his knuckles. 

Behind him, there’s poorly stifled laughter and Eddie whips his head around, still squeezing Richie’s hand.

“What did you say?”

Richie takes a breath through his nose, gritting his teeth. If he weren’t stuck in this chair, with a needle poking at his skin, they’d be halfway out of the door.

The bearded man laughs again. “Nothing, man.”

“No, you definitely did,” Eddie says, wrenching his hand out of Richie’s grasp. It’s abrupt, and frankly terrifying, how easily Eddie goes from 0 to 60, flying off the handle before Richie can even blink. “Why don’t you say it to my face, you fucking pussy?”

When Richie was thirteen, he went through a phase in which he fantasized about being the damsel in distress that a lone, heroic cowboy would come and save. Though his innate attraction to the cowboy aesthetic remains, the specific fantasy of being saved didn’t carry into adulthood. He has seen too many guys puff out their chest and make a scene and it never looks as romantic as his thirteen year old self thought it would. Unfortunately, he’s right— having your husband defend your honor is far more embarrassing than it is romantic, especially when you never asked for it. 

Richie would have preferred if they both pretended they didn’t hear what the man had said. He would rather them pay for their tattoos and leave cordially, waiting until they're alone to talk all the shit they need to talk. Instead, Richie is pulling his husband off of a bloodied man before any more damage is caused, and shouting far louder than he’s comfortable with, ordering Eddie to go outside. The man gets to his feet, tilting his head up to keep his bloody nose from dripping on the floor, and Richie opens his wallet and hands his credit card to the tattoo artist, too embarrassed to make eye contact.

Outside, Eddie is still fuming. Richie grabs for the keys and Eddie snatches them out of reach. “I’m driving.”

“Fine,” Richie says, and stalks off to the car without saying another word, three steps ahead.

The silence doesn’t last long— as soon as they’re in the car, Eddie starts back up again, ranting about “backwards, dumbfuck assholes” and Richie scrubs a hand over his face, sighing.

“You can’t fight everyone who says something stupid or does something you don’t like.” 

“Don’t you think I know that?” Eddie snaps, whiteknuckling the steering wheel. “I told you, I don’t _want to_ do shit like that anymore-” 

Richie clenches his fists, turning to watch the stretch of desert through the window. “I didn’t _ask_ you to do it-” 

"So, you wanted me to just let it slide?” Eddie asks incredulously.

“That’s _not_ what I said.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes and grumbles, “Do it yourself next time then.”

Richie turns to him, frowning. “ _Do it myself?_ What the fuck? That’s the thing, though. I _wouldn’t_ have done that.”

Eddie scoffs. “Well, if you aren’t going to speak up for yourself, you can’t be upset about the way I choose to defend you.” He stares straight ahead, speeding down the empty road and something about his flippancy makes anger prick at the back of Richie’s neck. 

“Yes I can, Eddie. I didn’t ask you to stick up for me. I didn’t need it. I’m fine.” 

“ _Fine_ ,” Eddie huffs out a breath, and then another one, softer. He glances at Richie, his eyes apologetic. “I’m sorry.” 

“Let’s just drop it,” Richie says, his neck still uncomfortably hot.

“I’m sorry. I mean it.” Eddie holds his hand out between them, and Richie takes it reluctantly.

“Yeah, okay.” Richie rolls his shoulders, attempting to shake his embarrassment. “We’re going back to the hotel, right?” 

Eddie pulls his hand away, sending Richie a sidelong glance. “Yeah.” 

“It’s the other way.” 

“Right.” Eddie makes an illegal u-turn too fast, sending Richie into the door. “You know...I don't care what people say about me, I've heard it all. But it just fucks me up that they think they can say it at all? And to you? You don't deserve anything like that." 

"I'm fine,” Richie sighs, and he means it. “I've heard it all before too, it's not a big deal. It barely even registers anymore."

Eddie clenches his jaw. "That doesn’t make it okay.” 

“I’m fine,” Richie repeats, and points to the faded street sign. “You missed our turn." 

"What?" 

"The hotel is back there,” Richie says, pointing his thumb behind them. 

"No.” Eddie shakes his head, stubbornly. “I think it's up here, I remember." 

"Eddie-” 

"I know where I'm going, alright?" Eddie says curtly. 

"You obviously don't,” Richie responds, in the same short tone. “And you should slow down." 

As if to make a point, Eddie groans and takes a right corner going about 90 miles an hour. 

Richie winces and clutches the door as they drift into the oncoming lane. “Eddie-” 

“ _What_?” Eddie snaps and he jerks the wheel to correct his mistake, which turns out to be an even bigger mistake. 

They careen over the shoulder of the road and loose gravel and dirt, spinning out. 

Richie closes his eyes and braces himself, tensing when he hears the sharp crunch of metal, and the shattering of glass. He keeps his eyes shut as he’s jostled in his seat upon impact and he hears Eddie’s voice, angry “Fuck!” and again but quieter, pained: “Oh, shit. Richie-”

Opening his eyes, Richie looks down first. His hands are shaking and his chest burns with his panicked breath, but he’s fine. Then, he looks up, to his right. They’ve gone over the shoulder, down an incline, and into a dirt reserve. Slowly, he turns to look at Eddie.

The driver’s side window is shattered completely, its glass strewn across his lap and the door is crushed, nearly twisted around a wooden telephone pole. Eddie turns to meet Richie’s gaze, showing him the tiny cuts on the left side of his face, and lifts his arm. There’s a distinct lump on the side of his forearm, bruising and swelling already beginning to form.

A queasy feeling rises up Richie’s throat and he tugs at his seatbelt, his fingers slipping on the door handle. The seatbelt never comes loose but the door opens and Richie narrowly misses puking all over his feet.

"It's okay, I'm okay,” Eddie is saying as Richie heaves. “I’m alright, I think.”

“You’re fucking _not_ -” Richie spits on the dirt, his eyes prickling with tears. He sits up, daring to look over again.

“No, I am. I’ve felt worse- _Shit_.” Eddie groans, holding his arm to his chest. He takes a deep breath, looks at Richie and says, “So, I should tell you something.” 

Richie blinks at him, already feeling queasy again. “What?”

“I was never actually engaged.” 

Sirens began to sound and Richie can’t tell if they’re in his head or in the distance. He goes cold, frozen except for his trembling hands. “What?”

"I lied to you." 

“What-” Richie turns in his seat, leans his head out of the door, and pukes again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> it's okay to yell at me if you want.  
> I'm on Twitter @ curiousair


	10. you have my heart so don't hurt me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title credit- dreams, by the cranberries
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: brief hospital scene, gun usage

Richie stares at his blurry reflection in the vending machine glass. His stomach churns, a mix of hunger and the strong antiseptic smell of the hospital overwhelming his senses. It’s the cherry on top of the sickening knowledge that the love of his life has been lying to him.

“Fuck.” The dollar bill wrinkles and folds when he tries to feed it into the machine. After three more tries he gives up, figuring he’d puke up the overly processed chocolate covered pretzels anyway. He shoves his wallet into his pocket and looks down the hall at the choreographed chaos of the emergency department. 

Karma is bullshit. If he’s here, it means things must happen without rhyme or reason and that any efforts to put good out into the world in hopes of getting it in return are inconsequential and pointless in the long run. If karma exists, the formula is complicated and messy and he must have fucked up somewhere along the line, took too much or gave too little. Frowned when he should have smiled, hugged someone a little too long just to selfishly feel their heart race against his-

The bell above the door rings when he steps into the liquor store across the street from the hospital. He’s numb as he pays for a pack of cigarettes, numb as he stands outside and breathes in the bitter nicotine, and numb as he thinks about walking as far as his feet can carry him until he’s sore, until his chest aches, until he can feel something.

He finishes his cigarette, walks back to the hospital, sinks into a chair in the waiting room and promptly falls into a dreamless sleep. Either minutes or hours later, he wakes up to his phone vibrating in his pocket. He blinks to focus his vision and multiple texts from Eddie appear on the screen.

_hey_

_where r u?_

_i can use one hand comfortably lol_

_would really like to see u_

_im sorry_

_please dont leave me at the hospital_

Richie goes up to the nurse’s desk, scrubbing his tired eyes. “I’m here to see Eddie Kaspbrak-Tozier.”

“And you’re…?”

“His husband,” Richie mutters, and slaps the visitor sticker on his shirt. He drags his feet on the shiny linoleum as he makes his way through the maze of the ER. The curtain to bed seven is closed and Richie holds his breath as he pulls it open.

Eddie is sitting up with his feet hanging off the bed, holding his phone in one hand and typing painstakingly slowly. His left arm is in a sling, and the edge of clean white plaster can be seen coming out of both ends. The tiny cuts on his face are no longer bleeding, but there’s one over his brow bone with a small butterfly stitch over it. He looks up a Richie, and offers him a sheepish smile. “I was just texting you again.”

Richie nods at him, staying put at the curtains. Eddie looks small and fragile hunched over on the hospital bed, and it takes every ounce of self control in Richie’s body not to cross the small room and hug him. He tells himself that he’s only here because he wants to see if Eddie is okay, though he knows the real reason is the desperate text sitting on his phone. The dreadful truth is that he can’t say no to Eddie. An even more dreadful truth is that Eddie knows this. He has said it before in so many words, agreeing with alarming simplicity that Richie is as transparent as they come.

"So, I don’t need surgery. Nice, clean break.” Eddie smiles, wryly, and rubs a hand over the outside of his arm, close to the wrist. “Right along here. I got lucky." 

Richie glances at the x-rays of Eddie’s arm left on the stainless steel tray and can make out a fracture in one of the bones. “That’s good.”

“I think they’re gonna let me out soon.”

“That’s good,” Richie repeats, and forces himself to look anywhere but Eddie’s eyes. 

“I.. um-” Eddie scratches his head. “I do need to go to the pharmacy. Which I know is going to be difficult considering our car situation.” 

"Right."

Eddie sighs, and winces when he turns too quickly to face him. “Richie, I’m sorry-”

Richie stares at the floor. “I don’t want to talk about this now.”

“Okay,” Eddie says, edging on a whisper, and Richie is already taking steps back.

“I’ll see if I can get us a ride back to the hotel.”

Richie all but runs out of the room, escaping outside for another cigarette. He steps into the parking lot and takes out his phone, puffing at the cigarette like it’s the key to breathing easier. Eddie’s texts are still open, the ‘ _please dont leave me at the hospital_ ’ staring back at him. He hadn’t thought about it before, but briefly, and angrily, he seriously considers it. Instead of walking aimlessly, he’d get a ride to the hotel, pack his shit, and take the next bus back to LA. He’d leave and wouldn’t look back, knowing that looking back would mean never cutting the ties between them. Losing Eddie would mean losing himself, but he’d come to terms with that miserable reality if it meant feeling anything better than this.

There’s one Uber driver available in the area and Richie and Eddie end up waiting outside the hospital for forty minutes before he shows. Eddie spends around seven minutes in the pharmacy, which the driver politely reminds Richie will cost extra, then they’re finally dumped in front of the hotel. Richie digs the key card out of his pocket and unlocks the door, ready to collapse from exhaustion the second the door shuts behind them.

He steps into the restroom and washes his face, contemplating a shower as he peels off his dirty clothes.

Eddie is standing in the middle of the room when Richie comes out of the restroom, fumbling to unbutton his jeans with one hand. He glances up at Richie, chuckling a little, and continues his fruitless attempt to get undressed. Sighing, Richie offers him a hand and steps away before he gives in to his urge to rub a comforting hand over Eddie’s shoulder.

“Tomorrow we can go to the salvage yard where the car ended up. Then we’ll see about getting another car or renting one, I don’t know.”

“And then what?” Eddie asks, adjusting his arm in the sling.

“We go back to LA,” Richie answers, and turns away to avoid looking at Eddie’s wide, inquisitive eyes. 

Eddie is quiet for a minute, and Richie knows the question is coming before Eddie asks it. “What happens after that?”

Richie turns off the light and climbs into bed, relieved when Eddie silently accepts the non-answer. Quietly, Eddie joins him in bed, propped up with a folded pillow under his shoulders. He shifts uncomfortably for a minute, then groans, softly. “Richie...can you- is there any way you can-?”

In the semi-dark, Richie turns, feels for Eddie’s free hand and takes it, holding it still on the mattress between them.

Eddie holds on tight, intertwining their fingers. “Thank you.”

“Yeah,” Richie says, and closes his eyes.

Richie wakes up in the same position, and Eddie is sitting up next to him, staring at the ceiling.

“Hey,” he says, when he notices Richie is awake. In the warm morning glow, Richie almost forgets the events of the past 24 hours. Then, he sees the sling on Eddie’s arm and the cut on his head and remembers him saying, without even a slight tremble in his voice, ‘ _I lied to you.’_

Richie pulls his hand away and gets out of bed, Eddie doesn’t reach for him. 

* * *

At the salvage yard, Eddie does all the talking, waving his one functional arm at the owner as he argues his case. The man seems set on his price, but Eddie hasn’t backed down. They go back and forth, both too stubborn to make a compromise, and Richie stands behind in the sweltering heat, waiting for the exchange to be over. 

“It’s basically a tin can. No deal,” the man says for the third time, and starts to turn on his heel.

“Wait.” Eddie says, and he takes a shaky breath, his face contorting into a pained expression. He blinks and, like magic, there are tears in his eyes.

At the sight of the waterworks, the man stops and groans.

“This car was my pride and joy and I have nothing left. My husband and I are having a rough time-” Eddie chokes on his words and forces out a loud sob, which he stifles exaggeratedly. “We’re just trying to get back home to see my mom before she passes. The money would really help us. Pease.”

“Fine, fine, fuck. Don’t start crying on me.” The man throws his hands up in defeat. “I can give you two and that’s it. Any more and you’re fucking me over.”

“Thank you so much,” Eddie sniffles. “I really appreciate it.”

The man stomps across the lot and once he disappears into his bungalow, Eddie wipes a hand over his teary eyes and stops crying as quickly as he had started. Richie goes cold, a terrifying contrast to the desert heat, and his gut twists with nausea. Eddie shoves his hands in his pockets and gives Richie a sidelong glance, worrying his lower lip between his teeth.

Unease crawls up Richie’s spine and with another devastating lurch in his stomach, he realizes that this is just another trick up Eddie’s sleeve, like starting fires, starting fights, starting a steady thrum of electricity under Richie's skin.

Richie averts his gaze, out of fear that he’ll look too long and peel back another layer of Eddie’s mysterious shell to reveal something else new, something else he should have known weeks ago to aid his misguided intuition. He stews in the foreboding feeling that begins to cloud his thoughts and keeps his mouth shut.

They’re quiet during the ride to the car rental agency and quiet when Richie hands over his credit card and quiet when they’re walking to the shiny, new car. Eddie breaks the silence first, a hand on Richie’s elbow. “Can you talk to me, Richie?”

Richie spins around to face him, and he realizes that the buzz between them has likely been a fuse all along, waiting to be set alight. He's seeing red, fire burning at the edges of his vision, and there's barely enough restraint left in him to keep his voice low. “What the fuck do you want me to say to you?” 

Without a second of hesitation, Eddie responds with the same fire, as if he's been waiting for the opportunity. “Anything! Fuck, don’t just leave me in the dark!” 

“Leave you in the dark?" Richie is so bewildered, he has to laugh, and he can't stop the harsh words from ripping themselves from where they've been caught in his throat. "Jesus Christ, Eddie, that’s lovely coming from a fucking liar! You want me to talk to you now when I have to pry everything out of you and _beg_ you to open up! You left me alone without an explanation, you fucking—I had to chase you down to get you to talk to me and then I find out our entire fucking relationship is based on a lie! Sorry if I’m not in a talking mood.” 

Eddie presses his lips together and deflates, motioning to the passenger’s side door. “Open it.”

Richie swallows the lump at the base of his throat and presses the unlock button on the key fob.

They're back at the hotel before they speak again, having suffered through a tense thirty minute car ride. The room is stuffy and it’s suffocating, extinguishing the fire enough to calm Richie down. 

Eddie sits on the bed and opens his mouth to speak, but Richie waves him off. He stays put at the door, because the closer he is to Eddie and his intoxicating energy, the harder this will be. 

“If you want to talk, you need to tell me what’s going on.” 

“With what?” 

“Your ex, Eddie," Richie says, exhaustion weakening his voice. "Were you even in a relationship at all?” 

“I was. But it wasn’t-” Eddie sucks in a breath and looks at the dirty carpet under his feet. “It wasn’t everything that I said it was. We were only together for six months.” 

“And?” 

“And he cheated on me and treated me like shit and... I proposed to him anyway.” Eddie brings his thumbnail to his mouth, then pulls it away to wring his hands together. “I thought if we were engaged, he would stop. He saw the ring and he called me crazy, so we decided to separate or take a break, or whatever.” 

“He broke up with you,” Richie aids.

Eddie nods, letting his eyes slip closed.

If Richie weren’t as tired, he would scream. Instead, he grits his teeth and digs his nails into the base of his palms to will his hands to stop shaking. "You weren't even seeing him while you were seeing me." 

"No-” Eddie answers, and backtracks immediately, looking up to meet Richie’s eyes. “Well, sort of.” 

“Then why the fuck did you lie to me about being with someone? Why did you make me wait? You knew how I felt about you.” As Richie speaks, the guilt makes a reappearance, even though now there’s no reason for it, no place for it to fit beside all of the anger and confusion that has taken its place. “I felt so fucking awful about being the other man.”

“We weren’t completely broken up- he was- we were still talking, kind of and I thought I wanted- but, I- then I met you and I-" Eddie drags a hand through his hair and motions at Richie as if that explains anything. 

_Then I met you._ Richie had thought it was a romantic sentiment, something he was sure to cherish for the rest of his life. It means something different now, something sour and corrupt. "So you just set your eyes on the first guy you see? I’m just a rebound?" 

"You _aren’t_ ,” Eddie says stubbornly. “But if you were, wouldn't you rather be a rebound than a homewrecker?" 

Richie is shaking his head before Eddie can even finish the question. "No, Eddie. I don't want to be either of those things." 

“And you aren't! I _picked_ you. Specifically.” 

“Oh, great,” Richie scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “You _picked_ me. I’d love to hear how you made that choice.” 

"To be honest,” Eddie says, and Richie finds himself wanting to laugh again. _To be honest_ , he says, as if it’s _his_ choice to make these admissions. “To be honest, Richie, I thought you were handsome and you seemed...easy." 

For as long as Richie has been aware of romance, he has worn his heart on his sleeve. Even when he tried his best to stifle his true feelings and shove away his real desires in favor of prioritizing someone else’s, he has always been transparent. Again, Eddie knows this, He knew the moment they laid eyes on each other.

"Easy?” Richie echoes. Anger flares up from somewhere inside him, and he figures it’s much easier to handle than the embarrassment. “Oh, fuck off." 

“Wait, no.” Eddie stands up and crosses the room, stopping Richie in the corner. 

Richie holds out a hand to move past him, but suddenly Eddie is pleading, clutching Richie’s bicep. His eyes are wide, begging Richie to listen. "Wait let me finish! I mean vulnerable! Fuck, not _easy_. You looked at me in my eyes. You looked at me… like- No one has ever looked at me the way you look at me.” 

This is everything Richie has ever wanted, for Eddie to shed all of his layers and lay himself bare without hesitating. It’s bittersweet, because it feels awfully like a last ditch effort to convince Richie to stay. Still, Richie listens. He can’t say no to Eddie. He _won’t_ say no to Eddie.

Eddie’s voice softens, but doesn’t lose any of its desperation. “And the way you touch me? I've never- fuck, you're so good at it, Richie. I thought- I don’t know, if I had a fiance it would keep both of us at a distance, just in case? I’ve been through so much and I didn't want to get hurt again and- and maybe... I wanted to see if you would be willing to break the rules with me.” His brows furrow, and an unsure expression dances across his face before it settles into something solid and fierce. “And you were. You are. You _wanted_ me. You wanted me so much, you were willing to break up an engagement and fucking run away with me." 

Richie’s heart drops into his stomach and when he speaks, his voice trembles. "So this was all just some stupid test?"

Eddie freezes, like he’s been caught.

"Do you love me?” Richie asks, keeping his gaze trained on Eddie’s unblinking eyes. “I was ready to...I don’t know, just be fine with you never saying it if I could somehow convince myself that I felt it...but, I need to know and I don’t want you to lie to me." 

Eddie pauses, a beat too long for Richie’s comfort, and says, "I don’t know.”

Richie pushes past him, raking his sweaty hands through his hair. “I think I’m gonna fucking puke.” 

From behind him, small and barely audible over Richie’s pounding heart, Eddie adds: “I- you...you're a good person." 

Richie stops pacing and buries his face in his hands, stuck between crying and screaming. "That's not good enough." 

“I-I-” 

"You proposed to me. We're married. I have your _name_ tattooed on me. You _picked_ me _.”_ The ring on his finger brushes against his lip and another realization makes him even more sick to his stomach. He turns to Eddie, dropping his hands from his face. “My ring...is the ring you bought for him?” 

“I- I, um… I pawned it.” Eddie swallows, blinks, and puts a hand to his chest like it’s _his_ heart that’s breaking. “Then, when I met you… I… went back.” 

No one had told Richie that loving so unabashedly was a bad thing. Any risks, learned from fiction or otherwise, were always overshadowed by rewards. Give yourself up and you’ll find someone. Give yourself up and someone will appreciate you and love you. Give yourself up and true love is guaranteed to find you in the end. You won’t feel lost anymore, you won’t feel alone anymore, you won’t feel broken anymore. That was his dream, above all else. Standing in front of the love of his life and knowing he isn’t loved back is a fucking nightmare. If Richie had known that giving himself up would lead him here then falling in love would have been his greatest fear. 

“This is just a game to you." 

"It isn’t, Richie, I promise.” Eddie closes the distance between them again, reaching for him. “I’ve just been waiting for the other shoe to drop. I thought you saw what I saw and you just- I don’t know! But, then you agreed to leave with me, and you let me call you my boyfriend, and you said you loved me, and you agreed to _marry_ me and actually went through with it, I didn't know how to tell you the truth because I was afraid you would hate me. Then I talked to your mom and felt like shit because I will never be as good to you as she wants me to be. So, I don’t know… I thought leaving was better. We could have pretended none of this ever happened." 

"You thought just leaving me stranded in the middle of nowhere was a better solution than just coming clean and trying to talk to me?” 

“I wanted to! The longer I waited, the worse I felt, so I thought I’d just fuck off and you wouldn’t have to deal with me anymore.” 

Richie could shake him— he reaches out and stops himself in the middle of the movement, his fists clenched between them. “I wasn’t just _dealing_ with you, Eddie, I- fuck, I care about you. And you _know_ I care about you.” 

“I care about you too,” Eddie mumbles and Richie does shake him then, gripping him by the shoulders.

“What about _any of this_ shows that you actually care about me?” 

Eddie is quick to answer, fired up. “If I didn’t give a shit about you, I wouldn’t have done any of it.” 

Richie takes a step back, leveling a look at him. He takes a deep breath, and it only exacerbates the crowded feeling in his chest. “I don’t- sometimes I feel like you’re actually insane. And, I didn’t want to believe that, I really didn’t.” 

Eddie swipes his tongue over his lower lip and says, “But you _knew_ that already Richie.”

Richie gives him steely silence in return and Eddie continues, his voice eerily calm.

“ _‘You’re insane. I love you,’_ Do you remember saying that right before you let me put a ring on your finger. I broke up with my ‘fiance’ over the phone and you _loved_ that. You just grinned at me and let me suck your dick. I _stalked_ you online to book sessions with you. You knew who I was when you met me. Don’t pretend you didn’t.” 

"That isn't-” Richie sputters, and rushes to collect his thoughts. “I was stupid. I didn't see the signs sooner.” 

"So, what, now they're red flags and not the exact fucking reason you liked me?” Eddie raises his voice, his tone mocking. “Because I _excite you_ so much? Because I'm so wild and free and crazy and I make your life more interesting? Fuck you." 

"There's a line, Eddie." 

Eddie crosses his one good arm, raising a brow. “Where was that line? When I held a gun to your head two days ago? Did that not get you hard?” 

“It’s not- that wasn’t-” 

“It wasn’t what?” 

“That’s not fair. It doesn’t- that doesn’t mean it’s okay or _normal_.” Richie waves around the room, and the walls feel like they’re closing in on him. “None of this is normal, all of this is fucked up.” 

A silence stretches between them and Eddie drops his arm to his side.

"I never said I was proud of how I've acted. But I’d do it all again if it meant I’d get to be with you." 

Richie forces out a breath and it feels like it’s ripping out his throat. “I don’t think we can be together.”

“No-”

“I think we should break up,” Richie says, and now his mouth is moving on its own, clumsily like it’s full of rocks. On autopilot, surely a way his brain is saving him from more heartache, he twists the ring off his finger. “This isn’t working.”

At the drop of a hat, there are tears in Eddie’s eyes and it would be useful if they were real. Richie would put the ring back on, wrap his arms around Eddie until he stops sobbing-

“Richie, don’t-” Eddie takes Richie’s hand and Richie flinches away like there are hot coals at the end of Eddie’s fingers. “Let’s just start over, okay? We have a good time together. We feel good together. You like me, I like you. That's all that matters right?” 

“That- _What_? We can’t just start over.” Richie is angry again, so suddenly he’s shaking with it. “What’s _wrong_ with you? Are you seriously that fucked up?” 

He pries open Eddie’s hand and drops the ring in his palm, ignoring the burn. Eddie blinks like he’s surprised at Richie’s boldness and suddenly, he isn’t crying anymore. “A lot is wrong with me. For starters, I had a fucked up childhood-”

“So did I!” Richie snaps, and it feels like he’s losing his mind. 

“Oh, please, Mister ‘I got adopted and have a loving mother who calls every day.’ I had _no one_. You _had_ a home,” Eddie says, with an accusatory point of his finger. “I never felt comfortable anywhere and never fucking learned how to be around people in a normal way.” 

Richie scoffs. “Is that your excuse for manipulating me and _lying_ to me and using me?" 

"Using you?” Eddie questions, and there's laughter in his voice. “You're using me as much as I'm using you." 

"You-” Richie stops, and blurts out, “I dropped my entire life for you.” 

It wasn’t much of a life, but it’s the principle that matters. Giving yourself up for someone, hoping they’ll do the same. Eddie pauses for so long that Richie starts to think that Eddie is going to say what Richie is really thinking, pointing out all the ways he changed Richie’s life for the better.

Instead, he just exhales a tired sigh and asks, “Why?” 

Richie chokes. “I-” 

“You agreed to run away with me after a month. You just… went along with everything. Is this actually real to you, or am I just someone for you to fuck and write about? Someone fucked up for you to take care of and to keep?” Eddie continues, as cold as ice, his voice steady. “I’m yours, right? You wrote in your fucking diary about me like I was something to be _owned_ , like you’re fucking obsessed with me or something.” 

Tears prick at Richie’s eyes before he can think better of it and hold them back. “Eddie-” 

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says, and annoyingly, there _is_ a hint of remorse in his voice. “But am I wrong? Look at me and tell me I’m wrong.” 

Richie wipes at his face, the tears hot on the back of his hand. “I don’t- you aren’t-” 

“You want me to be honest, and I’ll do that. Fuck it, I’ll tell you just how messed up I am. But you need to be honest too.” 

“What are you talking about?” Richie asks, failing to keep his voice steady. “I’ve been honest this entire time.”

“You haven’t,” Eddie says. “And now you’re upset because I popped our little bubble.”

Richie clears his throat and says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” because he truly doesn’t. None of this makes sense. Last week, Eddie cradled Richie’s heart in his hands and now he’s got it in a stranglehold, threatening to squeeze until it pops in his grip.

“We’ve been living in this fantasy world where everything is perfect. I ruined the illusion and now you’re upset.” 

Their time together hasn’t felt real and maybe Eddie has felt that too, but in ways Richie didn’t understand until now. To Eddie, it’s been something more akin to a lie than a dream. But there’s too much that he can’t overlook— how they fall into bed together, hold each other, and touch like there’s all the time in the world to coax sighs out of each other. Is all of that enough to call this real? It is enough that he finally feels like he’s doing something right because he’s there for someone and that someone happens to help him feel less lonely? Is it right that his love for Eddie is as self serving as it is selfless? 

Is this love at all? To even entertain the notion that this hasn’t been, and that Richie has somehow mixed up all the feelings, has his eyes burning with fresh tears.

"Wha-? That's not what this is. Eddie, I love you. I don’t understand-" 

"Then what is this for you?” Eddie asks, his voice breaking. “You _love_ me? _Me_? That doesn't make sense. No one has ever said they loved me and meant it." 

“I do mean it! I don’t say things I don’t mean. It’s pathetic and childish and stupid, but I meant it all and I still do!” Richie is shouting now, the suppressed emotion finally bubbling to the surface. It would be easy if Richie didn’t love him, if he could chalk it all up to silly infatuation bordering on obsession. He almost wishes he weren’t in love and it wasn’t crawling its way out of his chest to put itself on display for Eddie to see. “Yes, I’m fucking selfish and super into you and you can say I’m obsessed, whatever, but when I say I love you, I’m not just making shit up. But you...I don’t know if you can say the same. I don’t want to keep you, I want you to keep _me_. I want this to be _real_.” 

As if it’s his last plea, Eddie responds: “I want that too!”

Richie feels like he's been ripped in half and crumbled up like an unwanted love letter. What hurts the most is that he still wants Eddie more than he’s ever wanted anyone. “How can I trust you after this?” 

“I don’t know,” Eddie says, and his voice is weak now, no fight left in him. “I wouldn’t trust me either.” 

“Fuck, I can’t even look at you right now,” Richie says, shutting his eyes as if Eddie’s beautiful face isn’t seared into his memory. “I need to- I need to leave.” 

Eddie nods, and bites down on his lip. “Okay. If that’s what you need to do.”

“I’m leaving,” he says, and it’s mostly just a way to convince himself that it’s true. His face is hot with embarrassment and he feels like a fool, like he should never trust his intuition again. Eddie remains silent, watching Richie step into the bathroom. Richie turns on the faucet, splashes cool water on his burning cheeks, and watches the water swirl down the drain, willing his nausea to subside. When he finally steels himself to look up at his reflection, Eddie is behind him in the doorway, holding the matte black handgun.

“Eddie.” Richie turns to face him, pressing himself into the edge of the counter. He has half a mind to hold his hands up in surrender, but he doesn’t. He opens his rapidly drying mouth to say something, he doesn’t even know what, and isn’t given the chance to figure it out.

When Eddie raises the gun and curls his finger around the trigger, Richie closes his eyes. The least he could do is not look Eddie in the eye as he does this. His heart beats erratically in his throat, his pulse rushing in his ears. He swears he can hear Eddie’s heart beat too, pounding just as wildly. In the silence, the click of the trigger sounds like a bomb detonating. Then, there’s the pop of the gun going off, louder in the small room. Next, glass shatters and Richie’s knees buckle. He can’t open his eyes. He _won’t_ open his eyes. His chest tightens and he chokes. It’s quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [quickly exits stage left]


	11. I hate you some, I love you some

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title credit- all I want, by joni mitchell
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: mention of blood

There’s blood between Richie’s fingers, dripping from his split palm and onto the floor where he crumpled to his hands and knees among the broken, reflective glass. He falls back on his heels, clutches his chest and brings one shaky, clammy hand to his face. Specks of red decorate the skin of his arm, splattered against his tattoo—he wipes his bicep, smearing blood over Eddie's name, revealing nothing but tiny, superficial cuts courtesy of the shrapnel. There's no blood pouring from him, no external pains or tangible wounds. Just an insistent ringing in his ears, a dull ache in his chest and beyond that, an unsettling silence. 

Above him, Eddie stands, wide-eyed and frozen, still pointing the gun where the mirror once was. His mouth moves, and instinctively, Richie's mouth moves too. Unfortunately he can't hear a thing—there's too much fear coursing through him like a rush of ice cold water. Eddie collapses to the floor like a felled tree, and the crack of his knees on the tile startle Richie back to reality. "No," he's saying, and he's been saying it over and over. His mouth is dry around the word as Eddie crawls towards him, grasping at him like someone would for a rope whilst falling to their death. 

Richie scrambles away, his back against the wall. “Don’t touch me.” 

There's something in Eddie's fingertips, tracing down between the creases of his palms, that seeps through Richie's skin and into his bloodstream like a love potion. All it takes is one touch and Richie could forget his fears and fall into Eddie's arms without a second thought. Under the influence of Eddie's touch, everything is perfect.

“I wasn’t-” 

“You just shot a fucking gun a me. You just- ” Richie clamps his mouth shut, realizing he’s only going to repeat himself.

“I wasn’t trying to-” 

"This is over," Richie says, his voice raw. The words are fighting their way out, clinging to the last bits of his compassion. "This is over. We can't-"

“I’m your husband," Eddie responds, as if Richie had asked.

“You’re crazy.” 

Eddie's face scrunches up into something ugly and tight and his lip wobbles. “My ex always called me that.” 

In Eddie's watery brown eyes, Richie swears he sees his reflection. Shocked and guarded, practically cowering in the corner. “Maybe he was right.” 

“Don't say that." Eddie sobs now, scrubbing at his eyes.

“Stop it,” Richie says, and nausea rejoins the party, taking a seat next to anger. "Stop crying. That isn't okay, and you know it."

Within seconds, Eddie stops crying. He wipes away his big, fake crocodile tears and levels a wary look at Richie.

Richie's stomach lurches. “You’re really fucked up.”

“You know that," Eddie takes a shaky breath, "and you have for a while. And you love me anyway.” 

“You just shot a gun at me," Richie repeats, and it's back in his head on a loop.

“I’m sorry, Richie," Eddie says, and he knows that Richie will forgive him. It's in the steadiness in his voice, the weary sigh he lets out that isn't quite pained enough. 

“You don’t love me.” 

If Eddie's lies are a stab through Richie’s heart to keep him stuck to the end of the blade, this is Richie yanking the knife free and bleeding out.

”I-” Eddie chokes, and his confidence is gone as quickly as it had arrived. 

“We're done," Richie says, hoping his broken voice relays his sincerity. He means this, it wouldn't hurt so much if he didn't. "I need to get as far away from you as possible.” 

“Richie…," he gasps, "please don’t leave me.” And he begins to tremble and his voice comes out between strained breaths, something ten times more concerning than tears. "Please don't leave me. I can't-"

“Don’t-” 

“Richie, please. I’d be lost without you." Eddie latches onto him, merging their fears until it feels like a literal wedge between them. He pulls Richie closer, digging in with his fingertips, as if the sheer force alone will bring them back together in the entrancing way in which Richie can't tell where his body ends and Eddie's begins. There's a frantic, erratic energy coursing through Eddie, and Richie shakes with the sharp fragments that slice through the barrier he's attempting to build.

Richie cradles him like a child, pulling Eddie into his lap, holding Eddie's head against his heartbeat. Even in the throes of fear and pain, his urge to comfort Eddie persists. “Why would you do that?" Richie presses his face into the crook of Eddie's neck, into his wild pulse. "You're making this so hard for me. For us. You know we can't be together now, right? Don’t you fucking know that?” 

Between shaky breaths, Eddie says, “I’m so sorry."

“I can’t do this. I wish we didn’t have to do this.” Richie closes his eyes, pictures them kissing for the very first time. “How can we-”

“I need you Richie. I’m so fucking sorry. I'm- I fucked this up. I know that. But I don’t know what I’d do without you. I can't imagine-"

“I love you," Richie says, shrugging his arms from around Eddie's trembling body, "but we can’t be together.”

Eddie clings to him, wrapping both arms tighter around Richie’s waist. “Just don’t leave me here alone." 

There’s still a threadbare string tying them together, and Richie is liable to float away without Eddie’s weight on the other end. Still, moving on has never felt as necessary as it does now. But, Richie can't fathom leaving him like this and living happily with that guilt weighing heavily on his conscience. Then again, he can't imagine living happily at all without Eddie's presence.

“Okay…," he says, his head spinning. Everything is so off kilter, he can't tell if this is going with or against his instincts. "Okay."

“Okay?”

“I won’t leave you here.”

Bad karma and its unknown possibilities send Richie into a cold sweat, but it isn't a hypothetical punishment that keeps him from leaving Eddie here. It isn't the hope that their damaged tether will repair itself, or Eddie's doe-eyed stare, or Richie's selfish pride in helping other people. There’s no pride in how easily he caves to this, succumbing to his own generous nature when he knows he should put himself first. That desire is in him somewhere, buried under his urge to be a good person, and he isn’t sure he has the energy to dig through the thick, impacted dirt to get there after years of putting himself last.

Richie carefully removes himself from Eddie's grasp and points to the gun sitting in the pile of broken glass. "Get rid of it. Then we'll go."

Eddie is shell-shocked, his breathing still unsteady. “I- what should I…?”

“Anywhere. I just don’t want to see it again,” Richie says, off-balance as he gets to his feet. He looks at it one more time, wishing he could go back in time and decide not to steal it. If he could have predicted that his husband would go completely off the rails and fire it at him, he would have thought twice about overstepping his boundaries in an attempt to help a suicidal stranger. He sighs, turns to the sink and rinses the blood off his hand, only for fresh blood to bubble to the surface. “Shit.”

“What?” Eddie finally picks himself up from the floor and stands beside him.

Richie shakes his head and Eddie steps closer, peering at the cut on his hand. He leaves the restroom and comes back with one of his t-shirts, holding one end with his semi-functional hand and using the other to rip the thin fabric. 

“I’m fine,” Richie whispers, but Eddie is already guiding Richie’s hand under the weak stream of water. He goes pliant then, letting Eddie rinse the blood and delicately wrap the fabric around his hand. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” Eddie says, carefully tucking in the end of the makeshift bandage. He releases Richie’s hand and picks up the gun on his way out. The hotel room door opens and shuts, and Richie is alone.

As he starts to pack, dread burrows its way into his bones at the thought of their long ride home. _Home_ , he thinks, and the dread sticks to his lungs. He has no home, in a literal or metaphorical sense. Eddie is his home. But he's made of warped wood and held together with rusty nails. It isn't to say he's damaged, it's just that he's tried to rebuild himself on his own using the very few tools he was left with after being chewed up and spit out more times than he’d like to admit. Richie walked into his life, providing the foundation he needed to build something better, something for both of them. Then, in one fell swoop, Eddie tore the roof of their safe space, leaving them in shambles and scrambling to rebuild it into anything resembling the repose they had when they first lay in bed together.

In the car, only about a block from the hotel, Richie turns on the radio to combat the unbearable silence. There are several stations of static before he lands on a cheesy 80s pop song that he promptly turns off.

"Was every time you cried in front of me fake?" 

"Um." Eddie pauses, turning to watch the endless expanse of beige. “I’m not- I don’t...I don’t do it as much as you probably think. I get panicked sometimes and the only thought in my head is ‘you need to make yourself cry.’ Then, other times, I do it because it’s... convenient. That’s fucked up, but, yeah...yeah, basically. I’m not proud of it, but yeah.”

Eddie turns to face him again and Richie keeps his eyes ahead, his stony silence prompting Eddie to ramble.

“I’m not, like… like this all the time. No, I’m not the most stable and yeah, my ex called me crazy. But, to him, expressing myself or reacting in any way he didn’t like was enough to call me a nutcase or a lunatic."

Richie watches the road, having to clench his teeth to keep from saying ‘I’m sorry.’ Eddie continues, undeterred by Richie’s lack of response.

"And I started to believe it, you know? It was the closest I'd ever been to someone. Before you, anyway. I didn't grow up having people I could trust. I learned to keep everything to myself or people could use it against me. I met him and I thought it would be different. It wasn't. And I thought, well, I must be doing something wrong if he's upset all the time."

Richie curls his fingers tighter around the steering wheel. For what it’s worth, if he ever saw Eddie's ex on the street he just might swing on him. He’s never wanted to fight anyone, and it’s almost laughable that has the urge now, even after everything Eddie has put him through. It must be the near-death experience at the hands of his husband affecting his psyche. If he could go through that and not absolutely lose it then, fuck it, he’d fight Eddie’s ex if the opportunity ever presented itself. It might mess up Richie’s ever-teetering karmic balance, but it isn’t as if the man hasn’t caused his fair share of pain. 

"He said he loved me, and I knew he didn't. I knew that. But, that didn't stop me from doing everything I could to keep him around, even if it meant putting up with shit I shouldn't have." Eddie stops and huffs out a dry laugh. "That's pretty ironic right? Considering I just shot a fucking gun at you, and part of me is hoping you’ll change your mind about us breaking up. Maybe I  _ am _ a fucking nutcase to think you could forgive me."

Eddie goes quiet for a minute before speaking again, less humor in his tone.

"I know you probably think I am or, like a compulsive liar or something, but I’m not...I just thought... I don’t know. I kinda hate myself all the time." 

An ache spreads up from Richie’s chest to the base of his throat, rising to build behind his eye sockets. It gets worse when Eddie looks at him and speaks, his voice cracking.

“Do you want a divorce?” 

Richie clears his throat, blinking away the impending tears. “I-... I really think we should. It's for the best."

Eddie nods, angling his body away from Richie in his seat. He brings his thumbnail to his teeth and bites down, creating the perfect visual to match the bitter mood that hangs over them.

There are many parts of Eddie that Richie doesn't understand, though some are things he simply doesn’t like and refuses to rack his brain trying to justify. It’s entirely possible that he just lacks emotional depth to hold all these new, unappealing parts of Eddie and turn them over in his hands until they make sense.

Maybe if he had attempted this sooner he would have found that the good parts and bad parts are two sides of the same coin. All of the exciting parts of Eddie, all the parts that make Richie smile, that send a spark of electricity up his spine, and make his head spin are the same parts that fill him with murky fear and uncertainty.

About five hours into their drive, Eddie suggests they stop for a break. The sun is setting, and they're passing through Arizona again, all the signs for Sedona and the sleepy little tourist town of Winslow getting smaller in the rearview mirror.

"I don't want to get a hotel," Richie says.

"We don't have to. We can just pull over and sleep." Eddie points up ahead to a sign for a rest area. “If you want.”

When Richie pulls into the rest area and turns off the car, they’re met with more strained silence. It might be their new reality, if there’s even a ‘ _them’ _ after this. Eddie looks at him, eyes wide and expectant, hypnotizing in the way they follow Richie’s. He’s waiting for something— _anything_ , Richie realizes— and Richie could give it to him. They could kiss, and make the halfway point of their ride back to LA into a symbol for starting over. They would smile, and Richie would cry, and Eddie would shed real tears and say ‘I love you’ for the first time-

“I’m sorry, Richie,” Eddie breathes. “I mean that.”

Richie reclines his seat and lies back, facing the door. Moments later, he feels Eddie's hand on his elbow.

“Hey.” Eddie points out of the windshield and Richie sits up, following Eddie's line of sight to the sun setting over mountain ranges in the distance. 

"Oh."

"Beautiful, right?" Eddie sighs, and it’s wistful, as if he’s longing for something just out of reach. 

They could get out and dance, like they have before. Eddie could wear his cowboy hat, Richie could wear his lovesick grin.

"It is,” Richie agrees, watching the vibrant orange rays cast a glow on Eddie’s face, illuminating the smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

"I'm getting in the backseat.” Eddie looks at him again, softer now, chewing his lip. “Did you want to…?"

"You can," Richie says. "I think I'll stay here."

Eddie takes off his sling, adjusts the seat as far forward as he can, and climbs out of the car. He opens the back door and Richie looks at him through the rearview mirror, tucked into the corner of the seat with his legs stretched out. They lock eyes yet again, and Richie doesn’t look away.

"I know it's stupid,” Eddie starts, in a hushed tone, “and it’s probably not okay to say now, but it's hard to fall asleep without you touching me."

The very moment that they met, the moment they  _ touched_, Richie had felt this in him. It was always there, his need for comfort and support, and Richie fed off of it. He leaned into his urge to relieve people of their burdens through physical touch, trading energies until they felt lighter and he walked away feeling important and needed. What would they be if Eddie were to change, and he no longer needed Richie to cut himself open to hold space for him? 

It makes him want to crawl out of his skin to think that without codependency, they’d be nothing at all.

“I can, if you want me to,” Richie says.

“I want you to,” Eddie responds, without a sliver of hesitation.

Richie raises his seat and climbs over to fold himself into the small backseat. Instinctively, it seems, Eddie spreads his legs and uncrosses his arms to make space. Richie sits between his legs and leans back against his chest, letting Eddie wrap both arms around him tentatively. He takes Richie’s hand, guides it over his heart and squeezes, something akin to a wordless apology. Richie’s heart races under his own palm and he curls his fingers around Eddie’s thumb to squeeze back. Not in acceptance, but in acknowledgement. ‘ _I know_ ,’ he wants to say. ‘ _I know you’re sorry and that makes this so much harder._ ’ 

He closes his eyes and drifts in and out of sleep. Each time he stirs, he can tell Eddie is awake by the stiffness in his body and the pattern of his breathing. 

It's dark when Richie opens his eyes once more to stretch his numb limbs. He tilts his head up, and sees Eddie, jaw clenched, staring through the window. The moon shines in on him, and his tear-streaked cheeks glisten in the muted light. He doesn’t turn away from the window when Richie reaches for him. His lower lip trembles and he exhales shakily around a soundless cry and Richie holds him. He holds him and doesn’t let go, even when Eddie finally allows his eyes to slip closed. Richie holds him, and can’t tell who’s comforting who.

* * *

Thin, grey clouds hang low over LA’s soft blue sky. A light breeze blows in through the car window, bringing with it the familiar scent of smog. It’s humid out, the warm, sticky air making the back of his neck damp with sweat. The last time they were here, it was the height of summer. July crept by with drastically rising temperatures, now it’s mid-August and the summer is dragging on, making its mark in the form of a heat wave that will likely last through September. 

If things were different, a coin toss would tell them whether to travel up or down the coast. They'd be up north, huddled together on a rocky beach or in the southernmost part of California, digging their toes in warm sand.

A honking car yanks Richie out of his fantasy and he blinks at the gridlocked traffic ahead. They've been in the same spot for too long, baking in the hot car with a perfect view of the valley below them and no recklessly romantic plans to go where the road takes them. 

They had slept for a few hours last night, curled into each other, and awoken to sore limbs, then crawled back into the front seats, and driven through the rest of the night to make California by morning. In the light of the day, it’s tense again, the magic of shared touch having worn off moments after the sun rose.

Belatedly, as Richie is exiting the freeway, Eddie mumbles: “It’s Sunday. The courthouse is closed.”

"Shit." Richie turns the car around, heading towards Eddie's apartment.

"I know," Eddie sighs. "I forgot. Sorry." 

"It's fine," Richie says. "I should have thought of that."

Eddie rests his head against the window for a moment, then sits up, adjusting his sling. "Can we stop and eat? Or, is that out of the question?"

Richie picks at the dry skin on his lip and merges into the right lane. “Why would that be out of the question?”

“I don’t know,” Eddie murmurs. “I just figured you wanted to hurry up and never see me again.”

The traffic light turns yellow and Richie puts an unnecessary amount of force on the brake pedal, skidding the car to a stop. “I didn’t say I never wanted to see you again.”

“Well...do you?”

Richie watches the steady glow of the red light across the intersection and imagines what ‘just friends’ would be like. They’re sitting in a cafe, on opposite sides of the table, making small talk about music and TV, trying to avoid letting their gazes linger too long. At the park, sharing a joint, feeling the jolt of want in their fingertips at the lightest touch. Saying goodnight with a brief hug and going home without each other. It’s nothing they haven’t done, but it was different then—there was a delicious tension built on mutual attraction and a faint glimmer of hope that something more could erupt between them. Now that it has, now they’ve kissed, made love, and made commitments, as thin and poorly planned as they were, they can’t be  _ just friends.  _

“Richie.” Eddie points at the traffic light. “Green.”

The car lurches forward and Richie nods, motioning to the shopping center on the corner. “We can eat there, if you want.”

The sandwich shop has an extensive menu, and they stand at the counter staring at it for too long. Eddie orders something with turkey and provolone and glances at Richie. Richie scans the options again and quietly excuses himself to an empty table in the corner of the shop. Shortly after, Eddie comes back with his sandwich, which he immediately starts picking over instead of eating.

“So,” Eddie starts, using his one hand to unwrap the sandwich. He pulls it apart, takes off one tomato and arranges the remaining two evenly over the lettuce. “We’re breaking up.”

Richie raps his knuckles on the table and nods, watching Eddie replace the tomato he previously set aside. 

“I’m okay with that, I think,” Eddie says. “I mean. I’m not  _ okay _ with it. It actually makes me want to open a vein, but...you know. I get it. But, I don’t know if I’m okay with never seeing you again.”

It would be unfair for Richie to tell Eddie: ‘I want everything or nothing at all.’ It’s a bleak and miserable way of looking at things, as if romance is inherently of higher value than friendship. But it’s hard to believe it wouldn’t feel like moving backwards when he’s positive that every second spent not kissing Eddie is simply time lost, time he’d surely spend longing for what they've built. They aren't meant to be 'just friends'—they never have been, and they never will be.

Still, it feels much too final to say that outloud. 

"I never said that we wouldn't see each other." 

"Then what are you saying?"

Richie finally looks up from the table and meets Eddie’s dark, sunken eyes. He looks tired and worn-out, hunched over like a timid stranger, a stitch away from falling apart. It’s as though Richie is seeing him for the first time.

"I’m saying that we aren't…” He trails off, realizing that the words on the tip of his tongue are a lie. They  _ are _ compatible. They  _ do  _ support each other and care for each other. They  _ could _ work if things were different.

"I don't know," Richie finishes lamely. "Maybe we shouldn't. See each other, I mean. Like, at all."

Eddie chews slowly, his expression unchanging.

"And, um,” Richie stumbles over his words, thrown by Eddie’s blank stare. “I really think you need help, Eddie."

"You  _ are _ my help.”

"Eddie," Richie sighs. "I like helping you. But, I'm not a doctor or therapist. I'm just a guy that's nice to you." 

“Is that not just as important as anything else?” Eddie asks. He starts to reach over the table for Richie's hand and stops halfway through the movement, dropping his arm abruptly. “That we’re here for each other? That we make each other feel good?” 

“That’s different." Richie stares at Eddie's hand, at how his fingers curl and twitch when Richie pulls his out of reach and tucks them under the table. “I can’t... _we _ can’t-” 

"What?" Eddie asks, urgency creeping into his tone. “We can’t  _ what_, Richie?”

Richie just shakes his head, glancing up at Eddie's eyes. “Not after everything that’s happened.”

A silence falls over them, Richie's chair wobbles under his weight, and Eddie chews his lip.

“I’ll go back to therapy, if that’s what I need to do.” 

_ Back_, he says, like he has been before. Eddie has more baggage than most, and it isn't alarming that he's been to therapy. And it isn't even surprising that Eddie never offered this information before now. The most jarring thing, Richie decides, is that he had never thought to ask. He has been pulling back his layers, revealing one trauma after another, and all Richie could do was hold him, telling himself that he's doing a good deed when all he did was wax poetic about how Eddie filled all of his empty spaces.

“You should," Richie says softly. "But for yourself, Eddie. Not for me.” 

“Okay.” Eddie nods, like he understands, then he rests his chin in his palm and leans forward over the table. “And, what are you going to do for  _your_ self when you aren’t with me?”

_ Nothing _ is the first answer that comes to mind. He'd be lonely again, grasping at straws to fulfill his need to feel useful, wandering aimlessly like he had been for 34 years, laying awake at night waiting for love to save him. 

Who would he be without Eddie to love and care for?

_ No one. _

Sickness rushes Richie faster than he can stop it. He practically jumps out of his seat, barely making it outside before doubling over and puking on the concrete. 

* * *

"Okay."

"Okay," Eddie echoes, hugging his backpack in his lap. He nods and turns in his seat, his misty eyes not quite meeting Richie's. "Um, bye. I guess?"

"Yeah-" Richie opens his mouth and wrenches the word out of his throat. "Bye."

Eddie climbs out of the car and walks up the steps to his apartment building without looking back, leaving nothing in his absence but an overwhelming hollowness in Richie’s chest. It fills the cavity around his ribs and expands, crawling into his gut as he parks the car in front of his house. 

His car— the one he had left when he took off with Eddie— is no longer in its spot, likely towed shortly after he left town. Richie gets out, fishing his keys out of his pocket at the front door, only to find that the locks have changed. It's been nearly a month since he left, and though Richie gave them no reason to think otherwise, it seems his roommates took his childish truancy as a permanent leave.

Back in the driver's seat of the rental car, he holds his phone and stares at his contact list. A black book of all his failed relationships stare back at him. He hovers over his mother's contact and shame fills the space Eddie left. If he called her, she would understand. She would never call him a failure or a naive, lovesick fool. But, he'd cry. And though she'd listen and offer soothing words, he'd still be ashamed of how he had everything he'd ever wanted and let it slip through his fingers. 

He puts his phone aside and starts the car, heading back in the direction he came. After circling the block a few times, going back and forth in his mind on whether or not he should, he parks in front of Eddie's apartment building once again.

He knocks on the door before he loses his nerve, eyeing the eviction notice taped over the peephole. 

Eddie swings the door open, seeming unsurprised to see Richie on the other side. 

"I don't have anywhere to go," Richie says, in lieu of a greeting.

The spark of hope in Eddie's eyes dulls as quickly as it appears. "Oh."

Exhaustion weighs on Richie's shoulders but he manages to stay upright, though all he wants is to drop right here in the doorway, bawling and kicking his legs like an overtired toddler who isn't ready to be put to bed. All it takes is Eddie holding out his hand and Richie practically stumbles over the threshold into his arms. Their hearts pound out of sync against each other's chest, yet Richie still has the urge to say 'I miss you.'

"I wish things were different," he finds himself saying.

“I know, I’m sorry," Eddie says, and steps back reluctantly to let Richie inside. He goes into the kitchen and returns with a glass of water, guiding it into Richie's hand.

"Thank you." Richie drinks, and takes a seat on the couch where he and Eddie spent hours at a time toeing around the inevitable. Where he let daydreams run rampant. Where Eddie had seen in Richie that restless desire and crossed nonexistent lines to fulfill his own.

Richie has wondered, both dizzy with curiosity and itching with anxiety,  _Who is Eddie Kaspbrak_?

More than the object of Richie's affection, the source of his energy, and an exhilarating enigma, Eddie is a friend, a husband, and a dream come true. But, who is he beyond that?

_ He likes Dolly Parton. _

_ He makes me come really hard. _

_ He's an orphan. _

_ He makes me feel needed and less lonely. _

_ He's impulsive, dishonest, and might be dangerous- _

"I can leave you alone if you want."

Eddie is standing on the other side of the coffee table, chewing his thumbnail.

"No." It's the last thing Richie wants. In fact, he wants them tangled together on this couch, passing the time with sleep, laughter, and mindless conversation.

"Do you want to talk?"

Richie looks at him and wants to crush their lips together until everything centers itself again. He doesn't want to them have to say a fucking word, he wants them to fall into each other like waves crashing, just sighing and hissing into they break onto new, untrodded shores.

"I just want to keep telling you that I'm sorry," Eddie says. "And it might not matter but, I didn’t lie about everything." 

Richie sighs, something deep and weary, and Eddie hesitates a beat before taking a seat next to him.

"Almost everything I told you about my life was the truth and-" Eddie pauses, angling himself to face Richie fully. "I do love spending time with you, you do make me feel good, and I do sometimes think you're too good for me. I  _ am _ scared of fucking things up because I’ve never had anything so good before.” 

Eddie's hand— the one that isn't wrapped securely in his cast— trembles on his knee. Richie envelopes the hand in his, hoping it could quell his own nervous twitching. It doesn't, but it does cause warmth to spread up his spine.

“You’re kinder than anyone I've ever known. You have so much fucking love to give and you chose me," Eddie says, and lowers his voice, trying to catch Richie's eyes. "Do you know how fucking  _ terrifying _ that is?”

“I feel like I don't know you at all," Richie admits, "and that's not fair. I've told you everything about me...you know me better than anyone else.” 

The words sting and burn on their way out. It’s stupid that he feels this way when he knows, rationally, that it's impossible to get to know a person in just a few weeks. It's absurd that he can feel this way and still love Eddie with all of his heart and soul. But, he's a  _ romantic_, desperate for true love and all its magic affairs. Naivety just happens to be a prerequisite. 

"You know me better than anyone else too, Richie. I’ve never felt closer to anyone. I’ve never felt  _ held _ by anyone before you.” 

“I know, I know.” Just like he knew Eddie's ex wasn't nice to him and like he knew, without a doubt, that they never would have stayed together even without Richie's interference.

There’s pressure on Richie's chest, tightening in his throat. Eddie is going through the mortifying and painful ordeal of opening up, just for him. He should be elated. This should feel amazing. This should be the euphoric moment he’s been subconsciously waiting for. Instead, all he wants to do is cry and go to sleep.

"I don't think I've ever truly been  _ loved _ by anyone before you either…I’m not sure what loving someone is supposed to feel like." Eddie shifts closer, pressing them shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. He looks Richie right in the eyes and holds the gaze. "I just know that you make me feel better than I ever have. The bar might be really fucking low but I- Richie, I-" 

"Please, don't-" _Don't tell me you love me now._ It wouldn't be too little or too late, but it'd be the wrong time, the wrong circumstances. They should be laughing, not choking back tears and digging their blunt nails into each other's palms.

"I love being with you," Eddie sighs, like it's a weight off his shoulders. Carefully, he rests his head on Richie's shoulder. "You’re the best thing to ever happen to me. It’s… I guess it’s okay if you don’t think that’s enough. I’m sorry." 

The room fills with dead air and they stay leaning against each other, with Richie daring to relax into the position. He stares at the empty space on the TV stand, where a photo of Eddie and his ex once lived.

"How do I know this is real?" he asks, not expecting an answer. 

“You don’t," Eddie says. "I’m just telling you how I feel. I won’t- I’m not trying to convince you.”

Richie licks his lips and sucks in a breath, feeling Eddie stiffen next to him. “What if I want you to?”

Eddie stays still, a low chuckle escaping him. “At this point, I don’t know if I could.”

* * *

It's late when Eddie steps into the dark living room and stands at the end of the couch. Richie watches him for a moment, his eyes having adjusted to the lack of light. He's searching for Richie, not finding him stretched across the cushions.

From the floor, between the couch and the coffee table, Richie says, "I'm here."

Eddie gasps. "Shit, I didn't see you. Why are you on the floor?"

Truthfully, it's because he couldn't bring himself to sleep where they had before. Especially with Eddie sleeping alone in another room. Joke’s on him though, because it's his racing thoughts that have kept him from getting any rest, not the threat of uncomfortable nostalgia.

"Can I lay with you?" 

"Yeah." Richie starts to sit up, but Eddie moves the coffee table aside and lowers himself to the floor.

"Got kind of lonely in there," Eddie says, rolling onto his side. "I can't sleep."

Richie rolls over too, taking the hand Eddie offers. "Neither can I."

In the semi-dark, Richie can make out the shape of Eddie's face, but not his doe-eyes or the curl of his lips. It's a good thing, because he wouldn't be able to handle it paired with the way Eddie closes his fingers around his wrist.

It's the tender, comforting closeness that first brought them together, except it's cloaked in desperation and melancholy. It's the end of something you still cherish, something you want to savor for as long as you can. It's far more bitter than it is sweet. 

Some time later, they awake in the same position and it's still dark. 

"I'm going back to the bed," Eddie whispers, an invitation without explicitly asking. He goes, and Richie isn't too far behind him, following in a way that has become second nature.

Eddie is opening the window when Richie steps into the bedroom. He turns to Richie and allows himself to smile, then pulls back the covers on the bed. 

Not touching except for their intertwined fingers, they drift back to sleep.

The sun and the scent of burning toast rouses Richie from his sleep. The bed is empty beside him and he'd panic if he didn't hear clamoring in the kitchen. 

Bleary-eyed, Richie rolls out of bed and pads down the hall.

Eddie is at the refrigerator with a plastic bag, dumping food into it. "Hey," he says, when he notices Richie. "I forgot to clean this before we left so everything is bad."

"Water," Richie says, still half asleep, and finds a glass in the drying rack. He fills it from the tap and takes a sip while standing at the sink.

Eddie peers at him, shutting the refrigerator. "Still tired?"

Richie nods and glances at the little table outside of the kitchen. There's an eclectic spread of toast, jam, and frozen waffles. "Is this for me?"

Eddie shrugs a shoulder, looking sheepish. "If you want it?"

Richie picks up a piece of plain toast and bites into it. Around a mouthful, he says, "Thanks."

"You don't have to eat if you're not hungry," Eddie says, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Should probably eat something though. So, thanks."

They look at each other from across the kitchen for a brief moment. Richie chews his toast, crunching loudly.

Eddie clears his throat. "You can, um, go back to bed if you want."

"Probably will," Richie says, and his heart stutters a bit when he asks, "Will you come with me?"

After drawing the curtains to block the sun, Eddie crawls into bed next to Richie. The space is eerily calm, as if the bed is a boat floating in a lazy river lined with dead trees and dark shadows, and it winds Richie up as much as Eddie's sad stare.

Richie rolls over, letting Eddie drape an arm over him. His cast rests heavy on Richie's belly, rising and falling with each breath. 

In Eddie's arms, there's no longer a buzz and electric current strung between them. Something sweeter, kinder, and softer replaces it, and for a startling moment Richie thinks he has fallen out of love.

Then Eddie sighs against the back of his neck, traces his finger lazily over the shell of Richie's ear, and shifts closer, pressing them back to front, slotting them together perfectly, and Richie loses his breath.

It's still home. 

Richie sobs and tears prick his eyelids and burst forth like a dam breaking, like his fragile ceramic soul is cracking and spilling all its spoiled contents. He closes his eyes against them and squeezes his lips shut around the sound but the harder he tries not to tremble, the worse it gets. Eddie holds him tighter, tight enough to bruise, and doesn’t let go until Richie’s tears dry up and his breathing evens out.

* * *

They don’t make it to the courthouse the next day, or the day after. 

Before taking the car back to the rental agency, Eddie had stopped Richie at the door with a hand on his arm. “You can stay here,” he had said. “If you don’t have a place to go. In two weeks, I won’t have a place to go either but...for the time being...” Richie had cried then, and spent the next 48 hours crying intermittently, crumbling and folding like tissue paper at the mere thought of his future with Eddie.

They sleep in the same bed, though it's hard to settle into anything resembling comfort when Richie spends the time cycling between debilitating fear, reluctant anger, and sickening love. Eddie stays nearby, keeping himself at arms length during the day and pulling Richie close in the evening with a gentle voice in his ear— “ _Is this okay? Just tell me if you need space_.” 

Cradled in his embrace, Richie begins to wonder if he needs Eddie to take care of him just as much as he needs to take care of Eddie. 

Early morning, before the sun has risen, Richie wakes up with the thought still in the forefront of his mind. He joins Eddie in the kitchen, looks at him standing at the stove making eggs and lets his mind wander. This could be their typical morning routine. Eddie makes breakfast and Richie brews the coffee. They'll hold hands over the table while they eat, talking in sleepy circles until it's time for them to leave for work. Richie looks at Eddie— his disheveled hair and hesitant smile— and breaks down. 

Eddie turns off the stove and crosses the room, pulling Richie into a hug. It's the first time in days that Eddie has touched him outside the safe bubble they've created around his bed and it simultaneously feels like a million needles pricking at his skin and a weighted blanket over his shoulders. 

Richie cries, sniveling and leaking snot and tears onto Eddie’s shirt, because they both have a void that the other can’t fill.

"I can't be everything for you,” Richie says. “And you can't be that for me." 

He cries because he's selfish with the way he uses his kindness to feel better about himself, the way he only knows how to give and give, so much so that it’s become his lifeforce. 

"I need to figure out how to help myself but I don't know how, I've never fucking known how."

He cries because he’s afraid of what comes next, afraid that he’ll have to move on from this for both of them to get better, and afraid that he'll lose Eddie forever in the process.

"I don't know what to do, Eddie. Tell me what to do."

"It's whatever you want to do,” Eddie says, his voice strained with tears. “Always has been."

Weeks ago, with unbridled excitement, Richie had said they could go anywhere and do anything. He thinks the same thing now with trepidation.

“I think I need...space. From you. From us."


	12. open arms and open eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title credit- drive, by incubus

When Richie was 14 years old, he wrote in his diary about loneliness. Sat in his bed, forcing his sobs to stay trapped in his chest, he had poured his heart out on the pages, scribbling melodramatic lines about love and companionship as if he were already doomed to a life without those things. As it is with most young teenagers, it was easy for Richie to take flippant rejection and simple lack of inclusion as one and the same, letting it consume him until it became the very reason for his inner turmoil. He didn’t have a boyfriend yet and that was it, he had decided, the reason why he sometimes struggled with eating and sleeping and feeling generally well. It couldn't have been years of trauma before the age of ten, or his possible predisposition to depression. By then, he had read so many of his mother's old dog-eared bodice rippers that he had convinced himself he was already privy to sex and the fictionalized intricacies of romance. Before he even fully understood what an orgasm was, he had projected himself onto those characters and decided that romantic love would fix everything.

Sparing all the details about numbness and feeling like half a person, he had told his mother: _“Mom, I think I get sad sometimes.”_ Before the heartbroken expression even settled on her face, he followed up with: _“Maybe if I had a boyfriend I wouldn't be so lonely.”_ It was an innocent admission, casual even, over breakfast if he’s remembering correctly. His mother had looked at him across the table, wide-eyed and slack jawed. Then, she hugged him tight enough to crack his lanky bones. _“Honey, you don’t need anyone to make you feel complete. If you’re sad, you can talk to me. I’m always here.”_ She went on about how boyfriends were nice, but not a necessity and that maybe Richie needed a hobby other than sitting in his room alone, reading books he shouldn’t read. And Richie had hugged her back and nodded along, keeping his head stuck stubbornly in the clouds.

Had he opened up to her more and attributed his feelings to something other than normal fear of missing out, she would have been right there, holding his hand through it all. Instead he carried on refusing to face reality, and suddenly he was in his 30s, barely equipped to sit with his feelings without going stir-crazy. 

Now, nearly 35, he lies in bed in his empty childhood bedroom with his journal clutched to his belly as fear, shame, and anger tag team his senses. There's nothing and no one around to smother the way the emotions burn through him, nothing and no one to distract from how they dig in and embed into his bones, slice through his muscles, and course through his blood. 

He’s alone, face to face with his greatest fear, made worse by the shame of being naive and the fleeting anger that crops up every time he remembers Eddie’s blatant lies. 

He’s alone, and the one person that he wants to reach out to is half the reason why he’s in this shitshow to begin with.

He’s alone, and he has to be the one to pick himself up and put the pieces back together after taking himself apart for the sake of getting better. He's responsible for himself before anyone else, and that admission alone goes against everything he thought he wanted. A partner, a family, a job in which he uses his ‘gift of touch’ and penchant for putting others first to help people— all ploys to feel needed and as though he has a place in the world. As though he has a clear path to follow and he isn’t just floating, untethered. Lost.

Downstairs, Richie sits at the kitchen island while his mother makes dinner, and types ‘mental health services near me’ into his phone’s web browser. As he bookmarks a few of the results, his mother turns to him and smiles. "You alright?"

He smiles too, the best he can. It feels like a grimace, but it’s a step in the right direction. "I'll be fine, I think."

_August 26th- I am reintroducing loneliness. I can't tell if it's self-flagellation, self-care, or self-preservation. I desperately wish it was easier to distinguish between the three._

* * *

One of Richie's earliest memories is his aunt dragging him to a wedding at four years old. When it was time for the bouquet toss, he had asked what it meant and he was so thrilled at the idea that his tiny body could barely handle it. He jumped up and down, clapping his hands and begging to be a part of it. This excitement was met with overt disgust and the devastating blow that no, he could not participate in the tradition. It was because he was too young, a kind stranger had told him. But he had known even then, as he watched the little girls his age join the crowd of women, that it was because he was a little boy. Little boys are never to desire fairytale endings.

After that, he probably spent months humming the wedding march, playing house with kids at school, and fantasizing about what he perceived as normalcy before being uprooted for the last time and shoved into a foster home. Though his fascination with becoming a bride had waned by first grade, his dream of marriage didn't.

Holding his purple bowling shirt in his hands, Richie stands at the dresser and fights tears, reminiscing on the unbridled joy he felt standing at a shoddy Las Vegas altar. He grits his teeth, glances at the divorce papers on the dresser top, and tucks the shirt into the empty top drawer. He climbs into bed, pulls the covers over his head, and cries until his pillow is soaked, until his body aches and his head threatens to split open, until he has nothing left.

_September 9th- When you're more empty than you ever have been, fear is sharp and nauseating. Debilitating. I'm such a dreamer that I've always been able to avoid this, always been able to conjure up lies to help myself exist more comfortably in a world that often feels like a clawed hand over my mouth. But dreaming is what got me here. Hadn't I dreamt Eddie into existence? The fear that what we had wasn't real doesn't stop the longing. It doesn't stop the worry that I won’t find love like I had with Eddie again. I don't think I will, and I'm not sure I want to…Richie Kaspbrak-Tozier had a nice ring to it._

* * *

At 20 years old, Richie thought he had found his future husband. 

He finds evidence of this in the form of a torn picture in his mother's photo album. 20-year-old Richie, smiling, with his Christmas sweater clad arm wrapped around a man that he had angrily ripped out of his memory. On the back of the photo, written in felt tip marker: _'Richie and future son-in-law.'_

It lasted an unimpressive six weeks, but remains one of his longest and most serious relationships to date. It was born out of weeks of hopeless flirting, and was fast moving and intense once they got together. They had talked about marriage often, labeling it as a definite part of their future together. But when the relationship began to fizzle out, neither of them did anything to stop it. Not for lack of wanting— it was their immaturity, their lack of understanding of how relationships worked. Surely, if the initial spark was gone, they weren't meant to be after all.

As idealistic as he is and as much as he believes in 'meant to be,’ he never actually believed in 'one and only.' People walk into Richie's life, he falls in love, and things end, but it never stopped Richie from opening up his heart for the next person. There are too many people in the world, too much inside Richie that is constantly shifting and changing by the second. How could 'one and only' be real if Richie was a new person every day and felt as strongly about his new crush as he did the last? 

When it comes to romance and love, there are two possibilities: things work because the universe sorts them out or things work because you want them to work. He had always aligned himself with the latter belief, though he has always lacked the tools to _make things work_. He stood firmer in this belief after the death of that particular six-week relationship. They _were_ in love and maybe, if they had tried harder, 'meant to be' would have felt more tangible and in their reach.

Richie sits up in bed, squinting his eyes at his bright phone screen, typing and erasing words he probably shouldn't say.

_Hey, we should talk._

_I know it's late but I can't stop thinking about you._

_I miss you. Do you miss me?_

_I love you and I'm not sure that'll ever change._

He falls asleep with his phone in his hand and Eddie on his mind, all the messages left unsent.

_September 23rd- It's true that you choose someone every single day that you're with them. But if love was truly a choice more than an unfortunate stumble into an alluring and intoxicating madness, then I could choose not to love Eddie. I could cast it away and pretend that moving on doesn’t feel like sawing off an arm. Or, even better, Eddie could choose to love me._

* * *

Richie spent his 30th birthday alone, smoking in his bedroom. He was fresh off ending a month-long relationship, one they both knew was losing steam. Deciding not to try and scrape up any spare feelings and build them into something new was mutual— they were better off understanding that they weren’t meant to be, better off not sullying what they had by forcing feelings that weren’t there. Still, he sat in his bedroom, blowing smoke through the partially opened window, mourning what could have been.

As his 35th birthday approaches, he’s been remembering that day as less of an embarrassment and more as an act of bravery. Being alone didn’t destroy him then and it won’t destroy him now.

Letting go of Eddie— or rather his _idea_ of Eddie— still hurts, but it doesn’t twist in his gut and keep him from sleeping anymore. He no longer cries out silently for things to go back to the way they were, using Eddie as a bandaid in lieu of going through the arduous experience of therapy. He wants the same for Eddie, though he still holds space for him and all of his idiosyncrasies and he no longer needs to cry or scream or scold himself for being stupid and _too forgiving_ because of this fact. He still thinks of Eddie fondly, silently reminiscing and indulging from time to time in fantasies that are similar to the ones he had when they first met. Fantasies that became reality and stretched to lengths he couldn't have predicted. But he never lingers in these moments, knowing how easy it is for him to ignore reality in favor of seeing what he wants to see.

Richie opens his journal and turns back to June where he had written, with unshakable confidence, that Eddie Kaspbrak didn't feel like an accident. He reads through July, and August, all the high and lowlights of their tumultuous relationship, noting the missing pieces that were too painful to even document, and turns to a fresh page.

_October 7th- Eddie Kaspbrak is a case of right person, wrong time. I am not a failure for realizing that. We fit, we anchor each other, we breathe each other in as if it's the only way we can survive. But we are not meant to be, not in the definite, permanent way I taught myself to believe. Things have shifted enough that our jagged edges don't quite align the way I want them to. Maybe in time, with work, things will shift in our favor again. But I'm not sure when I'll be ready to do more than dive headfirst into feeling._

* * *

Mid-October brings a crispness to the air that Richie always finds nostalgic, even having experienced it year after year. The kitchen tile is a touch too cool under his feet, reminding him of when he used to sneak out of his room on restless nights and shiver at the sliding glass door to stare at the moon.

There’s a single cupcake on the kitchen island when Richie wakes up, store bought because his mother has never been a great baker. She’s kept this tradition up since he was little, even going as far as hand delivering one to his house or shipping it in the mail when he was living too far from home. He stopped asking for gifts around high school, but she insists on giving him a generously frosted cupcake as big as hand every single year.

"Good morning," she says as Richie slides into a seat in front of the cupcake. She gives him a hug and a wet kiss on the cheek, then dips her finger into the vanilla frosting. "Hmm, too sweet."

"Hands off," Richie says, snatching the cupcake out of her reach. "Get your own, it's my birthday."

She rounds the island, giving him that _look_ that makes him feel like he's ten years old again. Like she's proud of him for simply existing. "Happy birthday, sweetie."

"Thanks mom, I love you."

"Any plans?"

Richie shrugs and peels back the cupcake wrapper. "I don't know. I'll probably go buy weed or something." This earns him a whip from a twisted up kitchen towel and he laughs, his mouth full of chocolate cake. " _What_?"

"I know you smoke, I just don't want to _hear_ about it." She rolls her eyes and turns to open the fridge. "If you don't have any other plans we can see a movie."

"Maybe. I’ll see what’s playing," Richie says, pulling his phone out of his pocket. A new message notification lights up the screen.

**Eddie:** _Happy birthday, Richie. Have a good one._

It's been nearly two months since they've spoken. The last time they saw each other was at the courthouse, silently going over and signing the initial divorce paperwork. Their particular process— a ‘summary dissolution'— is known to be easier and faster than a typical divorce, but the connotation is the same. The end of something, a union falling apart. Before he decided to tuck the stapled stack of papers into the top drawer with his wedding shirt, he would tear up every time he saw them on his dresser.

Richie stares at the message on his phone for so long that his mom comes over and peers at the screen.

"What is it?"

"It's Eddie. He says happy birthday."

Richie’s eyes go unfocused, his mouth goes dry, and his skin warms from inside. He had only told Eddie his birthday once, during their ultimately nonsensical conversation about zodiac signs. It shocks Richie a bit, that Eddie remembers it, which unfortunately says a lot about Richie and his expectations. After all, it hasn’t been so long that Eddie would have forgotten everything about him. Still, Richie can’t help but wonder what other throwaway details Eddie has been holding on to. 

**Richie:** _Thanks_

**Eddie:** _I got you a gift. Nothing huge, but I was hoping we could meet up and I could give it to you?_

**Eddie:** _Or drop it off with you?_

"Mom…" Richie says, though she’s standing right next to him, watching the messages as they appear. 

“Go with your gut,” she says, and pats him on the back. 

Intuition is what led Richie to Eddie, giving him no choice but to follow. It also led him away from Eddie, though it hurt, and now it seems to be leading him right back, dragging him by an invisible rope tied and tangled around his heart and intestines, pulling hard enough to make him queasy.

**Richie:** _Well, I'm in Santa Clarita_

**Eddie:** _only 30 minutes, I could make the drive?_

_if you want. I could send it in the mail if that's better for you. I understand if you don't want to see me._

**Richie:** _I do want to see you._

It’s honest, because there’s no use in lying. No use in denying himself, and torturing himself with the image of Eddie sitting somewhere alone, wishing Richie had told the truth and said yes.

**Eddie:** _okay great. Where do you want to meet?_

**Richie:** _I'll go there. Same cafe where we used to meet?_

“Okay,” Richie says, and moves to put his phone down so he isn't tempted to come up with a reason to change his mind. Before he can, his phone buzzes again, three notifications in a row.

**Eddie:** _cool. Let me know when you're close._

_tbh I'm really fucking nervous to see you._

_Is it weird that I'm nervous?_

**Richie:** _It's okay, I'm nervous too._

* * *

One thing that becomes twice as evident when Richie enters the cafe is that he is very much still head over heels in love. The shy smile that pulls at Eddie’s lips when they lock eyes is what cements it— all the weight that settled on him during the drive over lifts all at once, and Richie practically floats across the floor towards him. 

Eddie opens his mouth and it's another blow to Richie's fragile facade, waking up all of the urges that had gone dormant. He wants to pulls him into a hug, he wants to cradle his face in both hands and kiss him-

"Hey."

It's a single word, but it washes over Richie like a flame licking at his skin. He slides into the booth, taking a seat across from him, and clears his throat. "Hey." 

Eddie offers Richie a coffee cup, a smile sparkling in his eyes. "Happy birthday."

"Thanks." Richie takes a sip of the coffee, burning his tongue. Beneath the burn, there's vanilla and extra sweetener sticking to his mouth. It's another thing that shouldn't send Richie's heart soaring, but absolutely does.

They've been apart for longer than they've been together. Richie used that time to turn things over in his mind, going through phases of anger only to be thrown abruptly back into shame and fear. The longing was the worst, twisting inside him, reaching out at the empty side of his bed. Acceptance came slower, cradling Richie in its arms and dulling the sharp pain of losing Eddie. 

That same feeling envelopes him now, and Richie feels safer than he has in weeks, safe to let himself think fondly of Eddie, safe to make a move other than hiding away and suppressing every positive memory of Eddie out of fear he would spiral into reckless infatuation again.

Eddie speaks quietly, as if a decibel louder would shred the blanket of calm settling over them. "How have you been?"

"Good," Richie answers. "You?"

"Better." He looks bright eyed and refreshed compared to how worn out he looked months ago. His face is fuller, a little scruffier, but his eyes are just as hypnotizing, dimples just as deep, lower lip just as pink when he worries it between his teeth.

"That's good," Richie exhales, and it gets caught in his throat. 

"You got another haircut," Eddie says, picking at the coffee cup sleeve. "And new glasses?"

"I did, yeah." Richie brings a hand to his head, instinctively pushing a stray hair off his forehead. "Just a trim."

A wider smile stretches across Eddie's face. "You look nice."

It's barely audible over the quiet din of the cafe, but a sigh escapes from Richie as he feels the return of their familiar tension. Bathed in low, yellow lighting, Eddie’s features are softened and he looks the way Richie’s coffee tastes, sweet and mild. Something pulls at them and they lean towards each other simultaneously, noticeable only because Richie is hyper aware of every movement Eddie makes. Eddie chuckles, and leans back against his seat, bringing his cup to his lips. If it weren't for their unfortunate history and the weight of the pending conversation, Richie could convince himself they're seeing each other on Eddie's lunch break, soaking each other up as much as they can in thirty minutes.

"You look good too." Richie takes another drink of his coffee and his gaze falls to where Eddie's arms are folded on the table. The cast is gone, leaving no trace of their accident. "How's your arm?"

"It's a little wonky, but it's fine. I'm at work again, so it gives me stuff to do."

Richie nods, and before this very moment, it hadn’t crossed his mind that Eddie could have moved on in more ways than one during their time apart. He could have shed all of his feelings for Richie before Richie could even _think_ about seeing him again. He could be seeing someone new, navigating that awkward flirting stage while Richie lies awake at night wondering if he made a mistake. 

“Where are you, um, staying?"

"With a coworker,” Eddie answers. “You?"

"With my mom,” Richie says. “It isn’t ideal, but I kind of like being home.”

“Back at work?” Eddie asks, tapping his fingers on his cup.

“Yeah, but somewhere new. I’m helping with an after school program. It’s part time, and temporary, but I like it enough.”

Eddie bites the inside of his cheek, stilling his nervous fingers. "No more cuddling then?"

When Richie had first tucked himself into the corner of his mother’s couch, soggy and weak with tears, he had known that moving on meant not going back to his old job. Putting himself first meant holding space for himself before everyone else, even if it ended up with a lower paying job and more debt.

“I needed a fresh start."

"Yeah, of course. And, speaking of..." Eddie reaches at his side on the seat, picks something up, and slides it across the table. It’s flat, rectangular, and wrapped in a matter blue paper. “Your birthday gift.”

“Oh.” It’s heavy in Richie’s hands, and the paper tears easily with a slice of his thumbnail. His nail presses into soft leather, and he pulls the rest of the paper aside to reveal a light brown, leather bound journal. 

Richie’s breath hitches in his throat again and affection swells in his chest. He keeps his eyes on the journal, afraid that he’ll cry if he does otherwise. "Oh. It, um, it matches the pen case you got me.”

“You still have it?” Eddie asks. 

“Yeah, of course. I wouldn’t have-” Richie looks up, meeting Eddie’s wide, expectant eyes. He runs a hand over the journal’s smooth cover. “This is really nice. Thank you.”

"I still have the hat you bought me." Eddie waits a beat, and sighs, something weary crossing his face. "Listen, I really miss you Richie. And I'm sorry-"

Richie sighs too, more relieved than anything. He’s here, holding his first birthday gift in years, and Eddie _misses_ him. "I'm not asking for an apology. I know you're sorry."

Eddie chews his lip. "But, do you forgive me?"

"I don't know.” Richie opens the journal, stroking the clean, white pages. “I don't think I'll ever not be upset when I think about certain things."

Eddie nods, his gaze unwavering. 

Somewhere in the shop, an espresso machine hisses and a timer goes off.

“I, um-” Richie takes a breath and lets the words slip out of his mouth freely. “I missed you too.”

Another silence pulls the tension taut— any tighter and it might snap. 

"What can we do about that?” Eddie asks, his eyes scanning Richie’s face. “Is that, um- do you _want_ to do something about that?"

"I don't know." Richie stares at the table, and tension wraps around his lungs. “I kept thinking that things needed to be different, but what I really meant was I wished I could go back and do certain things over… I wish you would have been honest with me. I wish we both were.” 

“I can’t change what I’ve done," Eddie says. "I wish I could… but, I can be different moving forward.” 

Richie flicks his gaze up at Eddie and says, in a tone more earnest than he can help: "I wouldn't want you to be a different person." 

"Better, I mean," Eddie corrects. "In general. I'm, uh, doing this kind of ridiculous group therapy thing and that has helped me not be, well...as fucked up. And I'm not drinking, which still feels weird." Eddie lets out a little huff of laughter before sobering again. "And that isn't- obviously I won't be perfect overnight. I'm still going to fuck up and not just with you. With everything, but hopefully not as much."

“I just want you to feel okay,” Richie says.

"I am feeling okay," Eddie says. "Are you?"

"Therapy sucks,” Richie sighs, “but yeah. I've definitely felt worse. Seeing you is nice."

The air around them seems to decompress at Richie’s admission, and Eddie exhales heavily with it.

"I want to be a better person and yeah, of course that's for _me_ ,” he says. “But I won't lie, Richie, One of the biggest perks is that I might get to keep seeing you." 

"You aren't a bad person because you have shit to deal with. I never thought that about you…I know I, um, probably said some things that made you think otherwise and I'm sorry," Richie says. "You aren't a bad person.”

Eddie makes a face, pulling his lips in a tight line and scrunching his nose. “Ah, don’t. It’s fine-”

“You aren’t,” Richie repeats. “You weren't then and you aren't now. You made mistakes and I was hurt, but I never hated you. I want to be able to trust you. I want-"

_I want you to love me_.

Eddie rests his hand in the middle of the table, inches away from touching Richie’s. "What do you want?"

"When it comes to us, um...seeing each other again, I'm open to that, I think. Being with you again."

"But?" Eddie asks, because Richie is that easy to read.

"But, I wouldn't want to start over completely,” Richie admits, daring to slide his hand closer to Eddie’s. “I wouldn’t want to pick up where we left off either. I just think we would need to...slow down." 

Eddie nods slowly and says, totally deadpan: "So, not leaving town and staying at a new hotel every other night like we're running from the law?"

"We had some fun,” Richie says, with a wry laugh. “Obviously, I regret some things, but I don't regret getting to know you and opening up to you." 

"I miss talking to you." Eddie ghosts his index finger around Richie’s hand, tracing a line next to the pinky and curving around the fingertips. “I miss that the most, I think.”

Richie smiles and his fingers twitch, aching to close the space between them. "Talking in circles, you mean?"

"Yeah,” Eddie breathes. “Even if we don't, like...get back together, I'd want to be able to talk to you." 

“Yeah.” Richie glances at his bare ring finger, and pictures the gold band he once wore sitting in one of Eddie’s drawers, collecting dust like Richie’s half of the divorce paperwork. "I'd want that too."

Finally, Eddie closes the centimeters between their fingertips and rests his hand on top of Richie’s. "What else would you want?"

Richie goes still and sweat begins to pool under his palm. It isn’t a jolt of electricity up his spine like the moment they met— it’s an overwhelming sense of tranquility enveloping him, pouring from the tips of Eddie’s fingers and warming Richie down to the bones. He has never been afraid to touch or to be touched, but this alone has implications of _giving in_ and _giving himself up_ again and with it comes unease. It feels too similar to falling again, toeing boundary lines and threatening to break the rules, but it's brand new in a way that makes him want to lace their fingers together and release his suppressed ‘I love you.’

“I should probably go.” Richie slips his hand away and stumbles to his feet, taking his new journal with him. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, yeah. That’s fine.” Disappointment flashes in Eddie’s eyes, but smiles anyway, sliding out of the booth. "Can we see each other again?"

"Yeah. Next weekend?" Richie rocks backwards on his heels, then forward onto the balls of his feet. "You can, um, text me if you want?" 

"Great,” Eddie says. He pauses in front of Richie, and tilts his head to the side, something like uncertainty in his wide eyes now. They end up stepping forward and leaning in at the same time, Richie's arms encircling Eddie's waist and Eddie's wrapping around Richie's ribs. It’s brief, but sets Richie’s heart racing and his head spinning. When they pull apart, they stay a millisecond too long in the half-hug position and desire punches Richie in the gut.

He pulls away completely, taking a step back. “I’ll see you.”

Eddie takes a step back too and bites at his smile, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck. “Yeah, I’m looking forward to it.”

Richie drives home with no music, replaying Eddie's smile in his mind on a loop, stewing in his lingering energy.

_October 14th- Even a semi-blank slate has the opportunity to be equal parts exhilarating and terrifying._

* * *

The grass is cool and a little damp, even through the fabric of the thick, woven blanket. A slight breeze rustles the trees and nips at Richie's ears, and he appreciates how the sun's warm rays soak through his flannel shirt to counter the chill. Eddie sits cross legged across from him, holding a paper cup halfway to his mouth as he speaks. Richie takes a sip from his own cup, though his coffee has gone lukewarm, and watches the wind push Eddie's hair from one side to the other. His cheeks are pink and his mouth is stained red, evidence of the cherry flavored licorice they've been eating. 

"So, I get there and the guy is irate already, which fucking sucked. He says the last guy messed up the alignment and he wants a new mechanic. And I'm like 'Okay, I'm the new mechanic. What's the problem?' He takes one look at me and is like: 'No, not you.' I was so confused I had to laugh. I don't know what I looked like to this guy but apparently my physical appearance didn't meet his expectations. Anyway, long story short we never actually messed up his alignment. We eventually found out he ran over a bike in his driveway and 'forgot' to mention it."

Richie has missed listening to Eddie ramble, content to sit quietly within arms reach of him, even if they haven’t touched all afternoon. They're back where they started, sitting atop a blanket in a mostly empty park, trading awed silence for rushed conversation, as if there’s a rapidly winding clock dictating the time they’re allowed to have together. 

Eddie shivers, pulling his hoodie closed. "Shit."

"Cold?" Richie asks.

It's nowhere near freezing, but when it's usually closer to 80 degrees in late October, a day in the mid-60s with the occasional gust of wind can feel like an early winter.

"Yeah, a little."

Richie sets his cup aside to crawl into the space next to him and Eddie stretches out his legs, making room so Richie can move in closer, pressing them shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh.

The nerves shoot right through Richie's body, up through his stomach and into his throat. Then his skin begins to tingle through layers of clothes, he sees the tension leave Eddie’s limbs, and nervousness takes a backseat. "Better?"

"Yeah." Eddie glances at their laps, at Richie's hand resting a respectable distance away from Eddie's thigh, and looks up at Richie's eyes again. He swallows and opens his mouth, taking a few seconds to make words. "Yeah, that's better."

Richie has spent the past week smiling at his phone, texting Eddie periodically during the day, and lying awake at night trying to reel in his anticipation. The anticipation only grows in Eddie's presence, both of them obviously waiting for the other to make the first move, to touch, to let the other know it's okay for them to touch too.

"Good."

Eddie nods, clears his throat, and looks up at the sky. He runs a hand absently over his leg and starts talking about how 'shitty' daylight savings is. 

Richie hums along, half listening, distracted by his budding plan to get them touching each other without making it into a _thing_. It most definitely is a _thing_ in Richie's mind, something he has been building up all week, blushing like a virgin at the thought of simply holding Eddie's hand again.

Waiting for Eddie's shoulders to relax a bit more, Richie brushes the tip of his pinky along the length of Eddie's, breaking the ice as if they haven't known each other much more intimately than this. He gauges Eddie's reaction, blushing selfishly at how Eddie stumbles a bit over his words, and repeats the motion even slower. When Richie hooks their pinkies together, Eddie stops talking altogether and gapes at him.

Heart racing, Richie asks, "Is that okay?"

"More than okay."

"Okay then, good," Richie says, with abrupt certainty that earns him a laugh from Eddie.

"I'm probably gonna say it a million more times, but I really missed this." Eddie curls his pinky around Richie’s and his face goes red. "I just- it's stupid, but I still think about you a lot. Like, every day."

"It's not stupid...I think about you all the time."

Eddie looks away when Richie looks at him, picking at the grass along the edge of the blanket. "It scared me to think that the second we slowed down you would, like, actually see me and not want me anymore...and it's fucked up because it turned out to be kind of true."

"That wasn't the case," Richie says, tugging Eddie's hand gently by the single digit. "I still wanted you, which complicated things."

Eddie swipes his tongue over his lower lip and laces just their pinky and ring fingers together. "What about now?"

Richie shifts his hand on top of Eddie's and slots most of their fingers together, leaving out the index finger and thumb. "It's not true now either."

"And now things are... _less_ complicated?"

"I wouldn't say they're less complicated.”

“But?” Eddie asks, still intently focused on the patch of grass to his left while Richie plays freely with his right hand.

Richie flips his palm, tucking his fingers under Eddie's, curling them to stroke lightly under the weight. Each pass he makes over the hinges of Eddie's knuckles elicits a sigh, each longer and more loose than the last. “But, I'm here now, aren't I?"

Eddie chews his lip, closing his hand slightly to hook their fingertips together in a weak grip. "You still want me?"

Richie drags his fingertips along the creases of Eddie's soft hand, a lazy tease up and down his palm, following the curve of the base to the smooth plane of his wrist. "Can't you tell?"

Eddie shakes his head, the beginnings of a smile pulling at his lips.

"Oh, I'm not as transparent as I was a few months ago?"

Eddie laughs. “Unfair.”

Richie takes his hand fully and squeezes, intertwining their fingers. Finally, Eddie looks at him, flashing a bright smile, and lies on his back. Richie follows suit, turning just his head to catch Eddie’s gaze only for Eddie to turn away to look at the sky instead. He laughs again, and shakes his head as if he can feel the questioning look Richie is giving him. 

"I can't even fucking look at you because I feel like an asshole with a crush all over again."

“That’s okay.” _I feel it too_ is left unsaid, but Eddie exhales softly, an entirely different smile on his face now, the redness on his cheeks spreading up his nose. Richie rolls onto his side, the pad of his thumb rubbing circles against Eddie’s wrist until he closes his eyes. “You aren’t allowed to fall asleep.”

Eddie opens his eyes, turning his head to grin at Richie. “Stop touching me like that.” He rolls onto his side too, reaching out to mirror Richie’s movements. The sun is in his eyes, lightening his irises to a copper brown and gold. He’s beautiful, and feels it too, leaning towards Richie like they’re sinking into the ground. He traces a zig-zag line up Richie’s forearm, pushing the sleeve up to the crease of his elbow where he presses his thumb gently before dragging it down to the wrist and back up again. Richie nearly gasps and Eddie pauses, then slips his hand under Richie’s arm to rest on his waist. Without words, Eddie asks if it’s okay and Richie answers by shimmying in closer, feeling Eddie’s sigh fan warm air over his lips. He clutches Eddie’s right hand with his and slides his left along the curve of Eddie’s ribs and around to his back.

It’s as quiet and tender as the moment they first touched, but doesn't feel like the first time. He knows this place well, is familiar with how all of his edges match up with Eddie’s. It’s coming home, slotting together with a layer of newness that he had felt last week.

"I still want you, and I'm scared of that,” Richie’s admits. “Of how _much_ I want you. It's too easy for me to not see anything else." 

Eddie looks at him, his big brown eyes gazing softly, and places a hand flat to Richie’s heart. It stutters under his palm and the touch cracks Richie down the middle and melts him down to the core, causing affection to build tightly in his chest.

“You still make me feel so fucking good.” Richie swallows the lump in his throat, places a hand over Eddie's. "You mean so much to me and I'm so fucking scared."

"I'm scared too," Eddie says. "I don't want to fuck this up again." 

"Then don't," Richie responds, letting Eddie's quiet huff of laughter soothe his nerves.

"I won't, I mean it." Eddie's smile wanes and his voice is hushed, rooting itself in Richie's chest and wrapping around his lungs. There's something playful and easy in it when he speaks again. "But, you gotta get your fucking head out of the clouds every now and then." 

Richie laughs, but it comes out strangled. Eddie grins anyway, clearly satisfied with himself. 

"I'll try," Richie says. "It's difficult when I'm around you... I don't know how I'm supposed to not feel like I'm fucking floating twenty feet off the ground at all times."

Eddie brushes his knuckles along Richie's jaw and massages behind his earlobe, three slow, languid presses of his fingertips, then brings a hand to Richie's cheek, thumbing gently over the cheekbone. Richie closes his eyes, his face aching with impending tears.

"Hey," Eddie breathes.

Richie blinks his eyes open, trying for the second time to push down the emotion rising in him. "Hey."

"You're the man of my fucking dreams," Eddie says, in a fierce whisper. His expression is open and earnest, his eyes nearly pleasing. "You know that, don't you? You're everything I've ever wanted."

Richie inhales through his nose, relaxing his jaw to exhale through his mouth, and tears brim at his eyelids, rolling hot over his cheeks and nose. “I was worried that I had imagined everything and that nothing we had was real. I know I saw what I wanted to see a lot of the time, but I can't convince myself that you were faking everything." He takes another shaky breath, using Eddie's eyes to anchor him. "I keep thinking about the way you smile at me, the way you say my name, the way you hold me... and as unimportant and small as all of that seems, I keep coming back to it. If I give that up, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. I can't let that go. I can't let you go." 

_I love you,_ Richie wants to say. _I love you and I ache with it._ This is one thing he knows, without a doubt, after spending weeks ruminating on it. It's solidified now, more than just lonely thoughts and fantasies— it's tangible, in his hands, radiating adoration, smiling with tears welling up in his eyes as he effortlessly holds Richie together. Richie has felt lost, broken, and empty without him, but it isn't Eddie's absence that fuels his love, it's the fullness, peace, and ardent rush of tender devotion he feels when they're together. 

"Nothing I can say can even come close to explaining how much I- how important you are to me. I'm safe with you. Happy. Comfortable. I feel at home with you," Eddie says, finally allowing his tears to fall. "It's like, I don't know how else to say it...You're my home, Richie." 

"Oh-" Richie chokes back a sob, and forces a laugh in an attempt to disguise it. "Fuck." 

Eddie laughs too, wiping the back of his hand over his eyes. “Can I kiss you?” 

Richie cradles Eddie’s head in his hands and kisses him, keeping him close. "I want this to work." 

"So, let’s make it work,” Eddie says, and kisses him again, deeper, licking over his lower lip and behind his teeth.

Richie kisses both of Eddie’s cheeks, tasting tears and feeling Eddie's smile against his lips. "We don’t have to run.” 

“We won’t.” 

Richie wipes Eddie’s tears, then lifts his glasses to wipe his own. "I don't want to do what we did before." 

"We won't,” Eddie repeats, still sniffling. “I promise." 

“We have to be honest,” Richie says.

“We will.” Eddie nods, letting Richie kiss the corners of his lips. "I'll be honest." 

"Promise?" 

Eddie gives him another kiss, sweeter, more yielding. "Promise." 

Above them, the sun shifts incrementally in the sky, clouds drift by and block the rays, casting shade over them as a breeze blows through, and they both shiver and move in closer, chest to chest. Their hearts beat steadily, a half second out of sync.

_October 21st- It isn’t fate, nor is it serendipity. It’s something in between, things shifting and snapping into place naturally with the help of my penchant to overthink and relentless intuition intertwining into a single entity. We’ll try again. We won’t force it. We’ll be careful, tip-toeing instead of barreling full speed ahead with no brakes. We’ll take our time, and while we rebuild I’ll keep my love for him tucked away until we’re on steady ground._

* * *

The calm, extremely delicate aftermath of the storm extends through the rest of October and into November before settling into something less delicate and tentative. They’ve been taking it slow, starting over without starting over. Richie is adamant about not overthinking things while still leaving room for self reflection, lest he fall back into the cycle of letting his life and potential future revolve around Eddie. The topics of trust and boundaries have come up in hushed, sleepy conversations, cushioned with jokes and the comfort of touch. _"Boundaries,”_ Eddie had said, curled into Richie’s side. _“Like, don't fire a gun inches away from your husband's head? I can do that."_ Richie had bitten back a smile and said, _“Too soon.”_ It seems like he’s been smiling for a full month now, basking in the blissful leisure of learning to be around Eddie in a normal way.

Richie's mother has welcomed Eddie into her home, only interrupting their time alone to exhibit typical mom-like curiosity. Thankfully, she waits until he's gone to ask the real questions— _How does he feel about the divorce? Are you still on the fence? What are your plans?_ — and Richie feels 15 again, being intercepted at the door after a date. More often than not, he tells her: _"We're just taking it slow."_

They've been seeing each other a few times a week, making the thirty minute drive, weekly lunch dates and sleepovers a routine Richie has started to love. They fall asleep together, with Eddie taking his new place as the big spoon, and wake up together, staring at their sleepy, fond expressions in the mirror as they brush their teeth in the cramped hall bathroom. They make breakfast, sneaking kisses while Richie's mother isn't looking. They smoke too much and get too giggly, hot boxing Eddie's car or making poor attempts to fan the smoke out of Richie's bedroom. They watch cartoons and listen to music in silence, holding each other like there's nowhere else they'd rather be. When they do talk, their conversations are no longer laced with Richie's subconscious intention to ‘fix' Eddie in any way. 

Sometimes they talk all night in bed together, dropping hints like _‘I wish the bed was bigger’_ and less subtle hints like _'I wish I didn't have to sleep without you'_ on the phone when they're apart. These conversations never leave the early, yearning stages to venture into making concrete plans. Plans like moving in together, building a life, finally discussing the incomplete, unsubmitted divorce paperwork hidden in Richie’s top drawer.

When Richie is alone, he writes. It's mostly nonsense, but if he squints he can see the messy beginnings of something that _may_ end up being a memoir. He writes about his childhood, what little he knows about his biological family, his mother, his misadventures in romance, and Eddie of course. Looking at everything on paper, a fractured outline of his life, he realizes that while Eddie is the newest part of his life, he's far from being the only interesting or formative person or thing that Richie has experienced. Knowing that, and that they can be apart without succumbing to insecurities is something Richie hadn't realized would make him proud. They know it's okay to miss each other, and Richie won't shame himself for wishing they were together again just moments after parting. 

They still need space, physical and otherwise. Taking it slow means a lot of things, but it also means understanding that the grandiose exchange of ‘I love you’s may not happen the way Richie wants it to. His mother had told him as much, one night after Eddie had gone home. _“Not everyone is like you Richie, just bursting at the seams to pour your heart out. Take your time. Be patient with him. Enjoy what you have, don’t belittle it by spending all your time waiting for something more. Falling in love doesn’t happen in a synchronized way.”_

The first time Richie had accidentally uttered ‘I love you,’ it was early morning, before the sun broke through the autumn clouds, before he was awake enough to stop the words from slipping out. He had opened his eyes to find Eddie awake, watching him with his face half hidden in their shared pillow. It wasn’t quite light in the room, a bluish hue over everything, and because it's his first thought every morning, Richie couldn’t help himself. “ _God, I love you_.” Eddie’s eyes widened and the gentle rise and fall of his chest had stopped. Before Richie could apologize, Eddie had said: _“I don’t want you to think you have to stop saying that. I like hearing it."_ Richie nodded, understanding, and Eddie kissed him then, pulling him in closer. _"You don't have to say it,”_ Richie had whispered in the crook of his neck. _“No pressure, honestly."_

Richie holds the words in his chest, where they’re safe, and they’ll kiss until the words don’t quite feel like they’re choking him. He’s patient with Eddie, and Eddie is patient with him in return.

Their time apart has intensified their sexual chemistry, growing from the wild electric current to a nearly unbearable fire that ignites the second their languid kisses become heated, spurred on by the predictable desire to desperately want what's just out of reach. They never made an actual rule that they couldn't go further than kissing and the occasional touch over layers of clothes, but when Eddie slid a hand up his inner thigh for the very first time in over two months, Richie had flinched away with an apology already halfway out of his mouth. The mere suggestion of _more_ makes Richie sweat sometimes— he finds himself trapped by the fear of opening up, giving himself away. He had screwed himself over possibly, looking at sex like that at all, whispering into the crease of Eddie’s thigh that first time, _“You can have me, in any way you want,”_ and rasping in his ear, _“I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours,”_ because now he can’t think of it any other way. Though it’s tempting to push through this discomfort, Richie doesn’t, and Eddie never rushes or asks for anything more. They always plateau comfortably instead, content to stay where they are, keeping their lips from wandering too far from the other’s. 

Eddie lifts his hand from where it's been resting on Richie's thigh the entire drive back from LA. They spent the afternoon at LACMA— their first _real_ date—walking the bright halls, holding hands, talking quietly about art neither of them understand, and laughing too loud.

Richie stops the car in the driveway of his mother's house and they get out, meeting at the driver’s side for a hug and a kiss. He leans against the car door, pulling Eddie close by the waist. "Did you have a good time?" 

"No, it was terrible." Eddie’s fingers lace behind Richie's neck, thumbs rubbing gentle circles. 

Richie smiles and smooths his hands up and down Eddie’s back, letting his fingertips stray beneath the frayed hem of Eddie’s jacket. When he meets skin, just the exposed sliver at the hip, Eddie shivers. His lips part and he sighs, letting it bleed into a warm laugh against Richie’s cheek. 

“Miss you already,” he says, pulling a few inches away. “I’ll call you when I get home?” 

_Home_ , he says as if he isn't already here. 

Richie kisses him again, letting himself go breathless with it, more than he has in weeks and when the fire builds, he doesn't temper it. He presses their hips together and touches his forehead to Eddie's. “Do you have any other plans tonight?” 

“You know I don’t.” 

Richie slides his hand lower on Eddie’s hip, a thinly veiled invitation. It makes him dizzy, but he goes with that too, letting his head go even lighter at the suggestive tone of his words. “Do you want to stay?” And he blushes as he adds: “My mom won’t be home for a while.”

Eddie grins, a flash of excitement in his eyes. “That is _hilarious_ , Richie.” 

“Don’t make fun," Richie says, silently cursing the way heat spreads across his face.

“I wasn’t. Just saying…you could have been more sexy about, well, initiating sex.” 

“Who says I’m initiating sex? What if I just wanted to cuddle in complete and total privacy?” 

"And play pretend a little?" Eddie kisses Richie's cheek and whispers in his ear, "Like this is our cute little house in the suburbs?" 

"If that's okay with you." 

"You know it is. Let’s go _cuddle_." 

Inside, they strip off their jackets and shoes and crawl onto the couch with a bowl of chopped fruit. Richie is tucked between Eddie's legs, shoulders and back to his chest, intermittently opening his mouth for Eddie to feed him pineapple and mango. An episode of Rocko’s Modern Life is playing on the TV across the room, but they were never really watching it to begin with. There’s something else in the air, familiar and heavy, weighing on every breath and movement, causing arousal to swirl and gather deep in Richie’s core. He's hyper aware of Eddie's body behind him, the tight muscle of his arms, the supple strength of his thighs, his warm exhale and wet lips on the shell of Richie's ear. Richie's hands stroke the tops of Eddie's outstretched legs and circle around to the underside, tickling the backs of his knees and pausing at his thighs. 

Eddie has one hand in Richie's hair, twirling absently, and the other reaching for the bowl of fruit on the table. "Open," he says, and Richie parts his lips to accept the fruit. Eddie dips his thumb into Richie's mouth, chasing the pineapple, and Richie chases the taste of Eddie's skin with his tongue. Eddie chuckles, gently tightening his legs around Richie's middle, and drops a hand to Richie's waist. He spreads his fingers across the plane of Richie's chest and squeezes, following the line of his sternum up to his collarbones, and places a single kiss at the base of his neck. Richie sighs, and before the touch melts him completely, he places a hand over Eddie's. "Um, bedroom?"

“You sure?” Eddie asks, one hand still massaging at Richie’s scalp.

Richie peels himself out of the embrace and holds out his hand. “I’m sure.”

In the quiet bedroom, they kiss until they’re panting against each other’s numb, swollen lips. Richie pulls Eddie's shirt over his head, touching his bare skin like it's the first time, then unbuckles his jeans and slides a palm down the front of his boxers. Eddie groans and throws an arm over Richie's shoulder like he'd fall through the bed without the support. He squirms in Richie's hand, mumbling about how _amazing_ it feels, how _good_ Richie is at this, how _perfect_ Richie is in general.

Eddie still knows just how to touch Richie too, just as mesmerizing and electrifying, but more careful than all the other times. He strips Richie down to nothing and kisses him from the soles of his feet to the tip of his ears, not missing any spaces in between. He parts Richie's legs and kisses there too, opening him up slowly until his hisses are heady moans. There’s no rush, no frantic energy, no desperation. It isn't a power struggle, nor is it giving himself away. It’s sharing something instead, allowing himself to accept just as much from Eddie. They have each other, a constant _here, here, here,_ and _you, you, you_ beneath every moment. Each kiss is just a kiss until it breaks and another, deeper kiss follows closely behind. Each touch is just a touch until the sensation fades to make room for the next one, each sigh is just a sigh, content to be just that but holding the potential to be many other things. A moan. A laugh. A cry. A hushed ‘I love you.’ It's moment to moment, an unchoreographed push and pull. 

When Eddie sinks into him, Richie moves with him instead of against him, not chasing anything, only wanting to take him deeper. Staring into his eyes, seeing nothing and no one else. Affection swells Richie’s chest and he’s filled to the brim with battling emotions, too fragile not to let tears fall. Eddie smiles at him, “Richie, baby,” he breathes, and brings their lips together. Richie sobs, letting it mix in with their moans, entangle with the overwhelming pleasure. Their shaky hands stay clasped on the pillow and Richie focuses on Eddie's eyes, the slide of their bodies, and the insistent roll of Eddie's hips, the unmistakable shroud of love surrounding them. There's a choked exhale, a kiss on Richie's earlobe and Eddie pulls back, his eyes teary. He says Richie’s name over and over, sniffling, blinking away tears. They cling to each other, reaching a near simultaneous peak before releasing with their own unrestrained cries. 

Eddie rolls onto his side, his forehead damp against Richie’s bicep. “Hey.” 

Richie, still tingling, barely has the energy to turn his head. “Yeah?” 

"You know what I want?"

"What?" 

"A fucking donut."

An hour later, they’re sitting on the hood of Eddie’s car, huddled with a donut box in their laps and a blanket over their shoulders, attempting to watch the stars from their spot in the shopping center’s parking lot. Eddie finishes the last bite of his donut, dusts cinnamon sugar off his fingers, and hops off the car to open the driver’s side door. He leans inside and sticks the keys in the ignition, turning up the volume when the radio comes on. The song, made up of honest, uncomplicated lyrics and dreamy, warm guitar, has been on repeat since earlier, when Richie first played it for them. Richie smiles, letting Eddie take his hands and lead him into a clumsy, off-beat dance. As the song goes on, their dance becomes more of a lazy sway— Eddie’s arms are draped over Richie’s shoulders, his lips brushing against Richie’s neck, his voice half-muffled when he says Richie’s name.

Richie hums, craning his neck to look at him. 

“I love you,” Eddie says, letting the words roll off his tongue and float in the air around them before settling in the space between them.

Richie cradles Eddie’s face in his hands and kisses him, tasting sugar and his relieved sigh, exhaling his own into Eddie’s pliant mouth. "I love you too,” he whispers, slipping his hands in Eddie’s back pockets. Eddie exhales a long, heavy breath and goes lax in Richie’s arms, his head against Richie's chest, right against his racing heartbeat.

* * *

* * *

In early December, lying in bed with Eddie after a trip to Candy Cane Lane, Richie gets a text from an unknown number.

_hey Richie. its Bill. i dont know if you remember meeting me over the summer but i found your number again and thought I’d reach out_

Richie reads the message twice, relief flooding his bones. They had left each other under such strange circumstances, with Richie being so preoccupied with Eddie, that he was forced to see Bill as just another sad stranger.

"Who is that?" Eddie asks, squinting at Richie's phone from his spot under Richie's arm.

"Bill," Richie says. Then, remembering that Eddie never met Bill, he adds: "The guy who gave me a ride to New Mexico...you know, to find you."

"Right." Eddie scans the screen again, yawning. "You should call him."

Richie sits up, his thumb hovering over Bill's number. "I should."

The line rings three times before Richie gets an answer.

"Hello?" There's noise where Bill is, like he's standing in a wind tunnel.

"Hey, um, it's Richie." 

"Oh." Bill pauses, and the noise in the background quiets. "Hey. I wasn’t expecting you to call. I hope I wasn’t bothering you.” 

“You aren’t. It’s good to hear from you," Richie says, but what he means is ‘ _It's good you’re alive._ ’ Bill must hear it laced between Richie’s words, because he stutters, starting and stopping a few times before getting a response out.

“Yeah, uh, just wanted to say thanks. For everything.” 

“No problem,” Richie says with a weak laugh. “I mean, all I did was complain about myself and then steal from you, really.” 

“You helped me,” Bill says, more insistent than Richie has ever heard him. “Not even just that. Just...asking about me and listening to me, you know?” 

“So, everything is-...you’re doing good then?” Richie asks.

“Things are better.” Bill sighs, but doesn’t elaborate further. “What about you and your husband?” 

Richie glances at Eddie curled up next to him, already fast asleep. “We’re working on it.” 

“That’s good. I’m still traveling,” Bill says. “Might keep doing that for a while.” 

Static fills the silence over the line, and Richie chews his lip. “Hey, uh, are you planning on being in LA any time soon?” 

“Um. I’m not sure. Why?”

“Just, you know... if you're ever in town let me know? It would be nice to see you.” 

“Yeah,” Bill says, his voice increasing in pitch. “It would. I’ll let you know. I gotta go, but it was nice talking to you again.”

"You too…you can always text me,” Richie adds, not caring if it comes across weird or desperate. They could both use a friend, and he assumes both of them are too old and sad to care about formalities or trying to look cool.

"Oh. Thanks. I will. I'll talk to you soon."

The call ends and Richie smiles, setting his phone aside to join Eddie under the covers.

  
  


The week after Richie talks to Bill, he digs through his wallet and finds Mike’s card. Mike picks up on the first ring, almost as if he were waiting for Richie’s call. 

“Hello?” 

“Hey, Mike. It’s Richie. From Sedona?” 

“Oh! Hey! I’m so glad you called.” Mike laughs, loud and full. “Funny, I was just thinking of you and Eddie just yesterday. Same wavelength? Anyway, how are you two? Still in the honeymoon phase?” 

Eddie is at the stove, struggling with a pan of eggs and humming ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.’ Richie watches from a seat at the island, his lips involuntarily stretching into a grin.

“Well,” Richie says, “things got kind of weird for a minute, but we’re good. Thanks, by the way, for the money. It definitely helped out.” 

“That’s great to hear!" Mike exclaims, his voice bellowing through the tinny speaker. "I’m doing better. Not perfect, but better. I did end up coming out to a few of my colleagues and it went well enough, but things aren’t the same. But, you know, I’m okay with that. People know me a certain way and if I don’t fit that image anymore, it’s not up to me to help them change that perception. _Anyway_ , I’m in the process of a few things right now. Still writing, but taking my time with it, trying to reevaluate some things. I'm renting a place in LA right now, getting excited for the holidays. Do you have any plans?”

The tree has been up since the day after Thanksgiving, decorated in purple and red tinsel and ornaments with Eddie’s help. Richie’s mother insisted, after learning that Eddie hasn’t been in a home with a Christmas tree since he was sixteen. “ _That isn’t right_ ,” she had said, and immediately went to the garage to dig out extra ornaments. Richie managed to hold in his tears of joy until Eddie said goodnight. 

“Not much,” Richie says, watching Eddie add too much pepper to his eggs. “Eddie and I are doing typical Christmas things with my mom. Making cookies, watching movies.”

“New Year’s?” Mike questions, and for a second Richie waits for Mike to ask a follow-up question.

"Uh...no concrete plans yet.”

"Well, if nothing comes up, I'm having a little get together. Nothing huge, but I'd love to see you two again. Great conversations, great hugs, a few drinks? That is, again, if nothing comes up."

Richie chuckles. "I don't think anything will come up. We'll be there."

Eddie looks over his shoulder, opening and shutting cupboards. "We'll be where?"

"Mike's New Year’s Eve party," Richie answers.

"Mike from Sedona?” Eddie asks, to which Richie nods. “Oh, cool. I’m excited. Tell him I said hi.”

“Eddie says hi and also that he’s excited,” Richie says. “I am too. It’ll be good seeing you again.”

“Oh, shit,” Mike hisses. “I need to get Christmas gifts for you-”

“No, no, you don’t. It’s fine-”

“No, I do. I won’t let you talk me out of it,” Mike says. “I’m hanging up now and I’ll see you in a few weeks to drink champagne and give you belated Christmas gifts.”

“Fine,” Richie says, smiling so hard his face starts to hurt. “See you in a few weeks.”

Richie hangs up the phone as Eddie comes to the table with two mugs of coffee in one hand and a plate holding a comically large omelette in the other. “Breakfast is served, babe.” He gives Richie a wet kiss on the cheek, and pulls out a chair, still beaming as he takes his first bite.

  
  
  


Last minute Christmas shopping at the crowded Westfield Topanga leaves them tired, hungry, and a little cranky. Richie clenches a single fist around three bag handles, letting Eddie grab his other hand and lead him around the line of people waiting to meet Santa. They end up at the food court, where they find a semi-clean table to stop and share a giant soft pretzel. 

"Hey! Richie! Eddie!"

They each glance around the large space, searching for the voice over the blaring Christmas music. Through the crowd, none other than Stan is practically jogging over to their table. The first thing Richie notices is that he’s still distressingly hot, dressed in a worn denim jacket and boots, and that’s still a minor annoyance. The second thing he notices is that Stan isn’t alone— he's walking hand-in-hand with a pregnant woman, looking absolutely delighted to see them.

"Hey! It's been a minute."

"It has," Richie says, doing the math in his head. It's been almost four months since their wild multi-day Las Vegas romp. "How are you?"

"We're great, man. This is Patty, my fiance,” Stan says, holding up the woman’s hand. “Patty these are the guys I was telling you about. The cowboy and his boyfriend."

"Vegas, right," she says, and holds out her hand for them to shake. "Nice to meet you."

Patty is tan with big, curly hair, and looks exhausted but otherwise happy to meet them. Richie shakes her hand, hoping his palm isn’t too sweaty. It isn’t every day you meet the fiance of the guy you had a threesome with in Las Vegas. Fleetingly, he wonders how much she knows and if it’s something he’ll have to worry about blurting out later.

"How have you two been?" Stan asks.

“We’re good,” Richie answers, glancing Eddie, who nods in agreement. “We’re better. Christmas shopping." 

"Hanukkah," Stan says. "After I got caught up in a little trouble in Vegas and had to come back here, all I wanted to do was see Patty and the baby. Must have been a sign."

"Fiance, huh?" Eddie asks, ripping a piece of his pretzel. 

"Yeah!” Patty sticks her hand out, wiggling her fingers to show the ring. “He proposed when he came home.”

"Sure did.” Stan wraps an arm around Patty. “Didn't think I was the settling down type, but seeing you two love birds helped.”

“That's actually super fucking sweet," Eddie coos. "Congratulations.”

"So…uh, about all the other shit that went down in Vegas." Stan bites the inside of his cheek, rubbing at his neck. “No hard feelings?"

"Water under the bridge." Eddie waves a hand and motions to the empty chairs. "Wanna join us?"

"Fuck yeah, my feet are killing me." Patty all but collapses into a chair and accepts a piece of Eddie's pretzel when he offers. "Thanks."

Stan takes the seat next to Richie and the four of them finish two soft pretzels, settling into an easy conversation over the din of the food court and cheery Christmas music.

Richie and Eddie aren't the least bit surprised when, right before Christmas, they're at a sex shop— per Eddie's suggestion— and they spot Bev and Ben browsing the wall of whips and floggers.

"Was kind of expecting to see them on the news," Eddie mutters. "'Los Angeles couple on the run. Man says he was held in sex dungeon for twelve hours against his will.'"

Ben waves at them and crosses the shop, looking like a nervous child as he approaches. Bev stands behind him, with the saddest 'kicked puppy' expression Richie has ever seen.

"Hey," Richie says, still holding a 64 oz bottle of lube in his hands.

"Hello," Ben says, twisting his lips into a smile.

Eddie puts a hot pink vibrating butt plug back on the shelf. "Hi."

"Hey," Ben says for the second time. How have you been?"

"Good," Eddie and Richie say simultaneously.

"Good," Ben repeats. "We have too."

"Good," Eddie and Richie echo.

It's uncomfortable enough running into someone you know at a sex shop and attempting to make small talk near a shelf of eerily lifelike dildos, but this is vastly worse, given their strange and surprisingly violent history.

Ben snakes an arm around Bev's waist and urges her forward, prompting her to greet them with a timid "hello." 

“We saw you last week at Whole Foods and decided not to bother you," Ben says. "But, since then we've been wanting to apologize for our behavior. We crossed some lines." 

Ben squeezes Bev's hand, once again prompting her to speak.

"Sorry for throwing a knife at you, Richie."

"And for locking you in our play room, Eddie," Ben adds.

Richie has such a visceral, full body reaction to the phrase 'play room' that all he can do is nod to keep from peeling his skin off.

"We also wanted to apologize for pressuring you into a situation you weren't comfortable with."

"It's fine," Richie says, an awkward laugh bubbling out of him. "No harm done."

"Except for the stab wound," Bev says, and winces, dragging a hand over her face. "Oh jeez, I'm so sorry. If there's anything we can do-"

"No, I'm okay, I mean it," Richie insists. The scar on his arm is noticeable, but these days it reminds him less of the actual accident and more of Eddie sitting next to him in the ER, eating candy.

Eddie clears his throat. "I should apologize too. Probably shouldn't have set a fire in your house. Or hit you...or bitten you. So, sorry."

"Let's just put it all behind us." Ben smiles, more genuine this time, and with a hopeful glint in his eyes, he asks, "Will you join us for dinner?"

Richie looks to Eddie for an answer, but Eddie is doing the same to him, raising an eyebrow in question. At the same time, they respond: "Sure."

"Great!" Bev literally jumps with joy, clapping her hands, then abruptly stops herself. "Nothing weird, we promise."

Ben leads the way out of the shop, Bev's hand in his back pocket. Richie and Eddie follow behind them, their fingers intertwined.

* * *

The heater in Richie's car sputters and comes to life, blowing hot air directly onto Eddie's outstretched fingers.

Mike's house is an easy thirty minute drive away, but Eddie refuses to let Richie pull out of the driveway until the car is completely warm.

Richie is a little more than eager to get going, ready to immerse himself in a party atmosphere, surrounded by friends, with the love of life at his side.

This morning, Bill surprised Richie and called saying he'd be driving in from Colorado in time for Mike's party. Last week, Richie invited Stan and Patty over lunch and they accepted with predictable enthusiasm. Just last night, huddled around the fireplace with spiked hot cocoa, Bev and Ben had done the same.

Eddie is just as excited about the party, but even more so about their trip afterwards. Tomorrow, on New Year's day, they're setting off on another road trip, this time deciding to go north to visit the bay area before heading further up into Oregon and Washington. It'll be a change from last summer, melting in the blistering heat, relying on spontaneous ideas, and running on the exhilaration of impulsivity.

"Okay, ground rules," Richie says, only half-joking. Eddie rolls his eyes, already predicting what's coming next. "No guns."

"No guns," Eddie promises, not for the first time.

Richie grins. "No starting fires either." 

"No fires," Eddie says, matching Richie's grin.

"No, um-" Richie laughs, barely able to contain it. "No threesomes with strangers.

Eddie purses his lips and frowns. "I don't know if I can promise that." 

“Eddie Kaspbrak-Tozier," Richie scolds gently and takes Eddie's hand, placing a kiss to his knuckles. "You’re my _husband_.” 

"I know," Eddie thumbs over Richie's new ring, his voice low. "I'm your husband."

"And I'm so fucking lucky."

To have someone like Eddie, someone who is resilient, headstrong, and with more love to give than either of them ever knew was possible, is better than anything Richie could have dreamt up. There's no need to get lost in fantasies— Richie looks at Eddie, here and now, and is deliriously happy, in love, and in possession of everything he wants in a partner. 

Eddie touches his warm lips to the corner of Richie's smile. "I love you."

He says it all the time now, and Richie will never tire of it. He wakes Richie up with it, mumbles it against his lips before they open their eyes, and whispers it in the fuzzy space right before a deep sleep. Richie falls in love with him every day, every minute, every second.

The universe may not have a rhyme or reason for its actions and karma may not be black and white, but they found each other and that matters. Not only are they good to and for each other, they're _deserving_ of each other. 

"I love you too," Richie says, warming from the inside out. "Ready?"

They're grounded, balanced, and still a little bit troubled, and they have the road ahead of them. They're tethered, wrapped in the comfort and security of each other. They're in love, fueling each other with tender intimacy and respect every day, every minute, every second.

Eddie kisses Richie once more and settles into his seat, fastening his seatbelt. "As I'll ever be."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading. this story has been equal parts fun and equal parts stressful to write. but, I loved the experience and I hope you all did too.
> 
> here's a little post story wrap-up:  
> Lost and Found is about love- finding it, defining it, questioning it, and everything in between. It’s about kindness- what it means to give and exploring if giving is always what’s best. It’s about flawed people doing the wrong things for the right reasons. It’s about identity, and how you ultimately define who are in relation to others. It’s about strangers feeling as lost as you do. It’s about family, finding a place to fit, to call home. 
> 
> Thank you.
> 
> follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/curiousair), where I posted a link to this story's playlist!


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